OR^NG 


HHB 


. 

' 

, 


"OVER   THIS    RURAL    PLACE  WE    STRAYED    AT    OUR    WILL." 


The 

ORANGE 
GIRL 


SIR  WALTE-R*  BBS  ANT 
// 

Illustrated  by 
WARREN  B.  DAVIS 


NEW  YORK 

DODD,  MEAD  &  COMPANY 

1899 


Copyright,  1898, 
By  WALTER  BKSANT. 


CONTENTS 


PJLG* 
PROLOGUE I 


PART  I 


HOW  I  GOT  INTO  THE  KING  S  BENCH 

CHAPTER 

I     I  AM  TURNED  OUT  INTO  THE  WORLD 15 

II     A  CITY  OF    REFUGE -  23 

III  A  WAY  TO  LIVE 29 

IV  LOVE  AND  MUSIC 33 

V     WEDDING  BELLS  AND  THE  BOOK  OF  THE  PLAY  -          -          -  40 

VI      A   CITY  FUNERAL 51 

VII     THE  READING  OF  THE  WILL 58 

VIII     THE  TEMPTATION 65 

IX     THE  CLAIM  AND  THE  ARREST          •--••-  72 

X     THE  ARREST .«79 


lii 

952440 


iv  Contents 


PART  II 

OUT    OF    THE    FRYING    PAN    INTO    THE    FIRE 

CHAPTER  PAGE 

I     BELEASE 01 

II     HOW  I   GOT  A  NEW  PLACE      -          • 97 

III  THE  MASQUERADE 103 

IV  WHO  BHE    WAS 116 

V     THE  BLACK  JACK    --.---...  130 

VI     A  WARNING  AND  ANOTHER  OFFER 143 

vii    JENNY'S  ADVICE 156 

VIII  A  SUCCESSFUL  CONSPIRACY •  -162 

IX  NEWGATE 170 

X  THE  SAME  OFFER    .........  184 

XI  THE  IMPENDING  TRIAL  .......  191 

XII  THE  TRIAL 197 

XIII  THE  COMPANY  OF  REVENGE  ......  213 

XIV  AN  UNEXPECTED  CHARGE 225 

XV  THE  FILIAL  MARTYR 238 

XVI  THE  SNARE  WHICH  THEY  DIGGED  FOR  OTHERS              -          -  248 

XVII     THE  CASE  OF  CLARINDA 253 

XVIII     THE  FALLEN  ALDERMAN 261 

XIX     THE  END  OF  THE   CONSPIRACY 267 

XX     THE  HONOURS  OF  THE  MOB 273 

XXI     GUILTY,  MY  LORD 280 

XXII     FROM  THE  CONDEMNED  CELL 295 

XXIII  AN   UNEXPECTED  EVENT 808 

XXIV  COMMUTATION 316 

XXV      TRANSPORTATION -  822 

XXVI     THE  LAST  TEMPTATIONJ  .......  836 


PROLOGUE 


ON  a  certain  afternoon  in  May,  about  four  or  five  of  the 
clock,  I  was  standing  at  the  open  window  of  my  room  in 
that  Palace  to  which  Fortune  leads  her  choicest  favourites 
— the  College,  or  Prison,  as  some  call  it,  of  the  King's 
Bench.  I  was  at  the  time  a  prisoner  for  debt,  with  very 
little  chance  of  ever  getting  out.  More  fortunate  than 
most  of  the  tenants,  I  was  able  to  carry  on  my  business. 
For  instance,  all  that  morning  I  had  been  engaged  in  com- 
posing a  song — it  was  afterwards  sung  with  great  applause 
at  the  Dog  and  Duck;  and  on  the  bed  reposed  the  instru- 
ment with  which  I  earned  the  greater  part  of  my  daily 
bread — my  faithful  violin. 

My  window  was  on  the  ground-floor  in  the  great  build- 
ing which  was  then  new,  for  the  Prison  had  been  trans- 
ferred from  the  other  side  two  or  three  years  before.  This 
building  contains  more  than  two  hundred  rooms,  and  twice 
that  number  of  prisoners.  Many  of  the  ground-floor  rooms 
have  been  converted  into  shops — chandlers',  grocers',  mer- 
cers', hosiers'.  You  may  buy  anything  in  these  shops,  ex- 
cept a  good  book.  I  believe  that  there  is  no  demand  in  the 
prison  for  such  an  article  of  commerce.  Song-books  and 
jest-books  and  cards  on  the  other  hand,  are  constantly  called 
for.  It  was  a  day  of  bright  sunshine.  Outside,  on  the 
Grand  Parade — otherwise  called  King  Street — which  is  a 
broad  footway  flagged,  strolled  up  and  down  in  the  sunshine 
an  endless  procession.  They  paced  the  pavement  from  East 
to  West ;  they  turned  and  paced  it  again  from  West  to  East. 
Among  them  were  a  few  neatly  attired,  but  by  far  the 
greater  number,  men  and  women,  were  slatternly,  untidy, 
and  slipshod.  Their  walk — nobody  was  ever  seen  to  walk 
briskly  in  the  PrLon — was  the  characteristic  scuffle  easily 
acquired  in  this  place;  the  men  were  mostly  in  slippers: 


The  Orange  Girl 


some  were 'in  .morning  gowns:  very  few  had  their  heads 
•  drfesged :  ; some  .wore  old-fashioned  wigs,  rusty  and  un* 
cOmbed'  sohie,  the  poorer  set,  were  barefooted,  and  in  such 
rags  and  tatters  as  would  not  be  tolerated  in  the  open  streets. 
The  faces  of  the  people  as  they  passed  were  various.  There 
was  the  humorous  face  of  the  prisoner  who  takes  fortune 
philosophically:  there  was  the  face  always  resentful:  the 
face  resigned:  the  face  vacuous:  the  face  of  suffering:  the 
face  sodden  with  drink:  the  face  vicious:  the  face  soured: 
the  face  saddened:  the  face,  like  the  clothes,  ragged  and 
ruined :  everything  but  the  face  happy — that  cannot  be  found 
in  the  King's  Bench  Prison.  Children  ran  about  playing 
and  shouting:  there  were  at  this  time  many  hundreds  of 
children  in  the  prison.  Against  the  wall — 'tis  surely 
twenty-five  feet  higher  than  is  needed — the  racquet  and  fives 
players  carried  on  their  games :  at  the  lower  end  of  the  Pa- 
rade some  played  the  game  called  Bumble  Puppy:  here  and 
there  tables  were  set  where  men  drank  and  smoked  pipes  of 
tobacco  and  played  cards,  though  as  yet  it  was  only  after- 
noon. The  people  talked  as  they  went  along,  but  not  with 
animation:  now  and  then  one  laughed;  but  the  merriment 
of  the  College  is  very  near  the  fount  of  tears;  it  hath  a 
sound  hysterical.  Some  conversed  eagerly  with  visitors: 
by  their  eagerness  you  knew  that  they  were  new-comers. 
What  did  they  talk  about?  The  means  of  release?  Yet  so 
few  do  get  out.  For  the  first  three  or  four  years  of  impris- 
onment, when  visitors  call,  prisoners  talk  of  nothing  else. 
After  that  time  visitors  cease  to  call:  and  there  is  no  more 
talk  of  release.  A  man  in  the  King's  Bench  is  speedily  for- 
gotten. He  becomes  dead  to  the  world:  dead  and  forgot- 
ten. Surely  there  is  no  more  pitiless  and  relentless  enemy 
than  a  creditor.  Yet  in  church  every  Sunday  he  asks,  and 
expects,  that  mercy  from  his  God  which  he  himself  refuses 
to  his  debtor. 

On  no  other  day  in  the  year  could  the  Prison  look  more 
cheerful.  Yet  as  I  stood  at  the  window  there  fell  upon  me 
such  sadness  as  belongs  only  to  the  Prison ;  it  is  a  longing  to 
be  free:  a  yearning  inconceivable  for  the  green  fields  and 
the  trees.  Such  moods  are  common  in  the  Prison.  I  have 
seen  men  turn  aside  from  their  friends  in  the  midst  of  a 
song,  in  the  height  of  the  revelry,  and  slink  away  from  the 
company  with  drooping  head  and  bowed  shoulders.  It  is 
indeed  difficult  not  to  feel  this  sadness  from  time  to  time. 


Prologue  3 

I  was  young :  I  had  few  friends,  for  a  reason  that  I  shall  tell 
you  presently.  For  aught  that  I  could  see  there  was  nothing 
before  me  but  a  life-long  imprisonment.  Nobody,  I  say,  can 
understand  the  strength  and  the  misery  of  this  yearning  for 
liberty — for  air — that  sometimes  seizes  the  prisoner  and 
rends  him  and  will  not  let  him  go.  Yet  I  was  better  off  than 
many,  because,  though  I  could  in  no  way  pay  the  money  for 
which  I  was  imprisoned,  I  was  not  without  the  means  of  a 
livelihood.  I  had,  as  I  have  said,  my  fiddle.  So  long  as  a 
man  has  a  fiddle  and  can  play  it  he  need  never  want.  To 
play  the  fiddle  is  the  safest  of  all  trades,  because  the  fiddler  is 
always  wanted.  If  a  company  is  drinking  they  will  call  for 
the  fiddler  to  lift  up  their  hearts :  if  there  are  girls  with  them 
they  will  call  for  the  fiddler  to  make  them  dance:  if  they 
would  sing  they  want  the  fiddler  to  lead  them  off :  if  they  are 
sitting  in  the  coffee-room  they  call  for  the  fiddler  to  enliven 
them.  Grave  discourse  or  gay;  young  people  or  old:  they 
are  always  ready  to  call  for  the  fiddler  and  to  pay  him  for 
his  trouble.  So  that  by  dint  of  playing  every  evening,  I  did 
very  well,  and  could  afford  to  dine  at  the  two  shilling  ordi- 
nary and  to  drink  every  day  a  glass  or  two  of  ale,  and  to  pay 
my  brother-in-law  for  the  maintenance  of  Alice  and  the  boy. 
Among  the  prisoners  were  two  who  always  walked  to- 
gether: talked  together:  and  drank  together.  The  others 
looked  askance  upon  them.  One,  who  was  called  the  Cap- 
tain, wore  a  scarlet  coat  which  might  have  been  newer,  and 
a  gold-laced  hat  which  had  once  been  finer.  He  was  a  tall, 
burly  fellow,  with  the  kind  of  comeliness  one  may  see  in  a 
horse-rider  at  a  fair,  or  a  fellow  who  performs  on  a  tight- 
rope ;  a  man  who  carries  by  storm  the  hearts  of  village  girls 
and  leaves  them  all  forlorn.  He  swaggered  as  he  walked, 
and  looked  about  him  with  an  insolence  which  made  me, 
among  others,  desirous  of  tweaking  him  by  the  nose,  if  only 
to  see  whether  his  courage  was  equal  to  his  swagger.  I  have 
always,  since,  regretted  that  I  lost  the  opportunity.  Duels 
are  not  allowed  in  the  College,  and  perhaps  in  an  encounter 
with  the  simpler  weapons  provided  by  Nature  I  might  have 
been  equal  to  the  Captain.  His  manners  at  the  Ordinary 
were  noisy  and,  if  he  had  ever  really  carried  His  Majesty's 
Commission,  as  to  which  there  were  whispers,  it  must  have 
beeen  in  some  branch  of  the  service  where  the  urbanities  of 
life  were  not  required.  Further :  it  was  known  that  he  was 
always  ready  to  play  with  anyone:  and  at  any  time  of  the 


4  The  Orange  Girl 

day:  it  was  reported  that  he  always  won:  this  reputation, 
coupled  with  his  insolent  carriage,  caused  him  to  be  shunned 
and  suspected. 

His  companion,  commonly  known  as  the  Bishop,  was 
dressed  in  the  habit  of  a  clergyman.  He  wore  a  frayed  silk 
cassock  and  a  gown  with  dirty  bands.  His  wig,  which 
wanted  dressing,  was  canonical.  His  age  might  have  been 
forty  or  more:  his  cheeks  were  red  with  strong  drink:  his 
neck  was  puffed :  his  figure  was  square  and  corpulent :  his 
voice  was  thick :  he  looked  in  a  word  what  he  was,  not  a  ser- 
vant of  the  Lord  at  all,  but  of  the  Devil. 

At  this  period  I  had  little  experience  or  knowledge  of  the 
people  who  live  by  rogueries  and  cheats :  nor  had  I  any  sus- 
picion when  a  stranger  appeared  that  he  was  not  always 
what  he  pretended  to  be.  At  the  same  time  one  could  not 
believe  that  the  hulking  fellow  in  a  scarlet  coat  had  ever 
received  a  commission  from  the  King:  nor  could  anyone 
believe  that  the  hoglike  creature  who  wore  a  cassock  and  a 
gown  and  a  clergyman's  wig  was  really  in  Holy  Orders. 

Among  the  collegians  there  was  one  who  pleased  me, 
though  his  raiment  was  shabby  to  the  last  degree,  by  his 
manners,  which  were  singularly  gentle;  and  his  language, 
which  was  that  of  a  scholar.  He  scorned  the  vulgar  idiom 
and  turned  with  disgust  from  the  universal  verb  (or  par- 
ticiple) with  which  annoyance  or  dislike  or  disappointment 
was  commonly  expressed.  And  he  spoke  in  measured 
terms  as  one  who  pronounces  a  judgment.  I  heard  after- 
ward that  he  wrote  critical  papers  on  new  books  in  the  Gen- 
tlemen's Magazine.  But  I  never  read  new  books  unless 
they  are  books  of  music.  When  he  could  afford  to  dine  at 
the  Ordinary,  which  was  about  twice  a  week,  he  sat  beside 
me  and  instructed  me  by  his  discourse.  He  was  a  scholar 
of  some  college  at  Cambridge  and  a  poet.  I  sometimes 
think  that  it  may  be  a  loss  to  the  world  not  to  know  its 
poets.  There  are  without  doubt  some  who  regard  poetry 
as  musicians  regard  music.  Now  if  the  work  of  a  Purcell 
or  a  Handel  were  to  fall  dead  and  unnoticed  it  would  be  a 
most  dreadful  loss  to  music  and  a  discouragement  for  com- 
posers. So  that  there  may  be  poets,  of  whom  the  world 
hears  nothing,  whose  verse  is  neglected  and  lost,  though  it 
might  be  of  great  service  to  other  poets  or  to  mankind,  if 
verse  can  in  any  way  help  the  world. 

However,  one  day,  when  these  two  prisoners,  the  Cap- 


Prologue  5 

tain  and  the  Bishop,  had  left  the  Ordinary  and  were  brawl- 
ing in  the  tavern  hard  by  for  a  bottle  of  Port,  my  friend 
the  scholar  turned  to  me. 

'Sir/  he  said,  'the  Prison  ought  to  be  purged  of  such 
residents.  They  should  be  sent  to  the  Borough  Compter 
or  the  Clink.  Here  we  have  gentlemen:  here  we  have 
tradesmen:  here  we  have  craftsmen:  we  are  a  little  World. 
Here  are  the  temptations  of  the  world':  he  looked  across 
the  table  where  some  of  the  ladies  of  the  Prison  were  din- 
ing. 'The  tavern  invites  us:  the  gaming  table  offers  us  a 
seat :  we  have  our  virtues  and  our  vices.  But  we  have  not 
our  crimes.  And  as  a  rule  we  cannot  boast  among  our  com- 
pany the  presence  of  the  Robber,  the  Forger,  or  the  Com- 
mon Rogue.  We  have,  in  a  word,  no  representative,  as  a 
rule  of  the  Gallows,  the  Pillory,  the  Stocks,  the  Cart-tail, 
and  the  Whipping  Post/ 

I  waited,  for  he  did  not  like  to  be  interrupted. 

'Sir/  he  went  on,  'I  am  a  Poet.  As  a  child  of  the  Muses' 
— I  thought  they  were  unmarried  but  did  not  venture  on 
that  objection — 'it  is  my  business  to  observe  the  crooked 
ways  of  men  and  the  artful  ways  of  women,  even  though 
one  may  at  times  be  misunderstood — as  has  once  or  twice 
happened.  One  may  be  the  temporary  companion  of  a  Rogue 
without  having  to  pick  a  pocket.  I  remember  the  faces  of 
those  two  men — I  saw  them  in  a  Thieves'  Kitchen  whither 
I  was  taken  in  disguise  by  one  who  knows  them.  The  Cap- 
tain, Sir,  is  a  Highwayman,  common  and  notorious.  He  is 
now  five-and-twenty,  and  his  rope  is  certainly  long  out,  so 
that  he  is  kept  from  Tyburn  Tree  by  some  special  favour  by 
Mr.  Merridew  the  Thief-Taker.  The  other,  whom  they  call 
the  Bishop,  is  a  Rogue  of  some  education.  He  may  last 
longer  because  he  is  useful  and  it  would  be  hard  to  replace 
him.  He  was  once  usher  in  a  suburban  school  at  Marybone, 
and  now  writes  lying,  threatening  or  begging  letters  for  the 
crew.  He  also  concocts  villainies.  He  threatens  to  set  the 
house  on  fire,  or  to  bring  the  householder  into  bankruptcy : 
or  in  some  way  to  injure  him  fatally  unless  he  sends  a  cer- 
tain sum  of  money.  He  tells  gentlemen  who  have  been 
robbed  that  they  can  have  their  papers  back,  but  not  their 
money,  by  sending  a  reward.  His  villainy  is  without  any 
pity  or  mercy  or  consideration.  The  Captain  is  a  mere  rob- 
ber— a  Barabbas.  The  Bishop  is  worse:  he  has  the  soul  of 
a  Fiend  in  the  body  of  a  man/ 


6  The  Orange  Girl 

'But  why/  I  said  'are  they  here?' 

'They  are  in  hiding.  A  sham  debt  has  been  sworn  against 
them.  From  their  dejected  faces  and  from  what  I  have 
overheard  them  saying,  I  learn  that  a  true  debt  has  been 
added  for  another  detainer.  But  indeed  I  know  not  their 
affairs,  except  that  they  came  here  in  order  to  be  out  of  the 
way,  and  that  something  has  happened  to  disconcert  their 
plans.  As  honest  men  we  must  agree  in  hoping  that  their 
plans,  which  are  certainly  dishonest,  may  succeed,  in  order 
that  their  presence  among  us  may  cease  and  so  we  may 
breathe  again.  The  air  of  the  Prison  is  sometimes  close  and 
even  musty,  but  we  do  not  desire  it  to  be  mistaken  for  the 
reek  of  St.  Giles's  or  the  stench  of  Turnmill  Street  ' 

However,  I  troubled  myself  but  little  as  to  these  two 
men.  And  I  know  not  how  long  they  were  in  the  prison. 
Had  I  known  what  they  would  do  for  me  in  the  future  I 
think  I  should  Lave  brained  them  there  and  then. 

This  afternoon  the  pair  were  talking  together  with  none 
of  the  listlessness  that  belongs  to  the  King's  Bench.  'Might 
as  well  get  out  at  once' — I  heard  fragments — 'quite  certain 
that  he  won't  appear — no  more  danger — if  she  will  consent/ 
and  so  on — phrases  to  which  I  paid  no  attention. 

Suddenly,  however,  they  stopped  short,  and  both  cried 
out  together: 

'She's  come  herself !' 

I  looked  out  of  my  window  and  beheld  a  Vision. 

The  lady  was  alone.  She  stood  at  the  end  of  the  Parade 
and  looked  about  her  for  a  moment  with  hesitation,  because 
the  scene  was  new  to  her.  She  saw  the  ragged  rout  playing 
racquets :  drinking  at  their  tables :  leaning  against  the  pumps 
at  each  of  which  there  is  always  a  little  gathering :  or  stroll- 
ing by  in  couples  on  the  Parade.  Then  she  advanced 
slowly,  looking  to  the  right  and  to  the  left.  She  smiled 
upon  the  people  as  they  made  way  for  her :  no  Queen  could 
have  smiled  more  graciously:  yet  not  a  Queen,  for  there 
was  no  majesty  in  her  face,  which  was  inspired  by,  and 
rilled  with,  Venus  herself,  the  Goddess  of  charm  and  grace 
and  loveliness.  Never  was  a  face  more  lovely  and  more  full 
of  love.  As  for  her  dress,  all  that  I  can  tell  you  is  that  I 
have  never  known  at  any  time  how  this  lady  was  dressed: 
she  carried,  I  remember,  an  ivory-handled  fan  in  her  hand: 
she  seemed  to  beholders  to  be  dressed  in  nothing  but  lace, 
ribbons  and  embroidery.  Her  figure  was  neither  tall  nor 


Prologue  7 

short.  Reasonably  tall,  for  a  woman  ought  not  to  be  six 
feet  high :  so  tall  as  not  to  be  insignificant :  not  so  tall  as  to 
dwarf  the  men :  slender  in  shape  and  quick  and  active  in  her 
movements.  Her  eyes,  which  I  observed  later,  changed 
every  moment  with  her  change  of  mood:  one  would  say 
that  they  even  changed  their  colour,  which  was  a  dark  blue : 
they  could  be  limpid,  or  melting,  or  fiery,  or  pitiful;  in  a 
word,  they  could  express  every  fleeting  emotion.  Her  feat- 
ures changed  as  much  as  her  eyes :  one  never  knew  how 
she  would  look,  until  one  had  watched  and  known  her  in  all 
her  moods  and  passions:  her  lips  were  always  ready  to 
smile:  her  face  was  continually  lit  up  by  the  sunshine  of 
joy  and  happiness.  But  this  woman  wanted  joy  as  some 
women  want  love.  Her  voice  was  gentle  and  musical. 

I  speak  of  her  as  I  knew  her  afterwards,  not  as  she  ap- 
peared on  this,  the  first  day  of  meeting.  I  make  no  excuse 
for  thus  speaking  of  her,  because,  in  truth,  the  very  thought 
of  Jenny — I  have  too  soon  revealed  her  name — makes  me 
long  to  speak  of  what  she  was.  Out  of  the  fulness  of  my 
heart  I  write  about  her.  And  as  you  will  understand  pres- 
ently, I  could  love  without  wronging  my  wife,  and  as  much 
as  a  woman  can  be  loved,  and  yet  in  innocence  and  with  the 
full  approval  of  the  other  woman  whom  also  I  loved. 

At  the  sight  of  this  apparition  the  whole  Prison  stared 
with  open  mouth.  Who  was  this  angel,  and  for  what  for- 
tunate prisoner  did  she  come?  At  the  very  outset,  when  I 
could  not  dream  that  she  would  ever  condescend  to  speak  to 
me,  she  seemed  the  most  lovely  woman  I  had  ever  beheld. 
Some  women  might  possess  more  regular  features :  no  one, 
sure,  was  ever  so  lovely,  so  bewitching,  so  attractive.  It 
is  as  if  I  could  go  on  forever  repeating  my  words.  The  wo- 
men of  the  Prison — poor  tattered  drabs,  for  the  most  part — 
looked  after  her  with  sighs — oh !  to  dress  like  that !  Some 
of  them  murmured  impudently  to  each  other,  'Who  gave 
her  all  that  finery?'  Most  of  them  only  looked  and  longed 
and  sighed.  Oh!  to  be  dressed  like  her!  To  look  like 
her !  To  smile  like  her !  To  put  on  that  embroidered  petti- 
coat— that  frock — those  gloves — to  carry  that  fan — to  pos- 
sess that  figure — that  manner!  Well:  to  gaze  upon  the 
inaccessible  may  sometimes  do  us  good.  The  sight  of  this 
Wonder  made  those  poor  women  appear  a  little  less  slat- 
ternly. They  straightened  themselves :  they  tidied  their 
hair:  the  more  ragged  crept  away. 


8  The  Orange  Girl 

As  for  the  men,  they  followed  her  with  looks  of  wonder 
and  of  worship.  For  my  own  part  I  understood  for  the 
first  time  that  power  of  beauty  which  compels  admiration, 
worship  and  service:  when  I  am  greatly  moved  by  music 
that  memory  comes  back  to  me.  In  looking  upon  such  a 
woman,  one  asks  not  what  has  been  her  history:  what  she 
is:  what  she  has  done:  one  accepts  the  heavenly  cheerful- 
ness of  her  smile :  the  heavenly  wisdom  seated  on  her  brow : 
the  heavenly  innocence  in  her  eyes:  the  purity  which  can- 
not be  smirched  or  soiled  by  contact  with  things  of  the 
world. 

I  continued  to  gaze  upon  her  while  she  walked  up  the 
Parade.  To  my  surprise  this  angelic  creature  stopped  be- 
fore the  pair  of  worthies — the  bully  in  scarlet  and  the 
drunken  divine.  What  could  she  want  with  them?  They 
received  her  with  profound  salutations,  the  Bishop  sweep- 
ing the  ground  with  his  greasy  hat. 

'Madam,'  he  said,  'we  did  not  expect  that  you  would  your- 
self condescend  to  such  a  place.' 

'I  wished  to  see  you,'  she  replied,  curtly.  I  seemed  to 
remember  her  voice. 

'May  we  conduct  you,  Madam,'  said  the  Captain,  'to 
the  Coffee-room  for  more  private  conversation.  Perhaps  a 
glass ' 

'Or/  said  the  Bishop,  for  she  refused  the  proffered  glass 
with  an  impatient  gesture — could  such  a  woman  drink  with 
such  men?  she  refused,  I  say,  with  a  shake  of  her  head,  'for 
greater  privacy  to  our  own  room.  It  is  on  the  third  floor. 
No  one  will  venture  to  intrude  upon  us — and  there  is  a  chair. 
I  fear  that,  in  the  neglect,  which  is  too  common  in  this  place, 
the  beds  are  not  yet  made.'  He  looked  as  if  the  morning 
wash  had  not  been  performed  either. 

'What  do  I  care,  sir/  she  asked,  interrupting  again, 
'whether  your  beds  are  made  or  not?  I  shall  stay  here/ 
She  withdrew  a  little  nearer  to  the  wall  beside  my  window, 
so  as  to  be  outside  the  throng  of  people.  'We  can  talk,  I 
suppose,  undisturbed,  and  unheard,  though,  so  far  as  I  care, 
all  the  world  may  hear.  Bless  me!  The  people  look  as  if 
a  woman  was  a  rare  object  here/  She  looked  round  at  the 
crowd.  'Yet  there  are  women  among  your  prisoners. 
Well,  then,  what  have  you  got  to  say?  Speak  up,  and 
quickly,  because  I  like  not  the  place  or  the  company.  YQU 
wrote  to  me.  Now  go  on/ 


Prologue  9 

'I  wrote  to  you,'  said  the  Bishop,  'asking  a  great  favour. 
I  know  that  we  have  no  reason  to  expect  that  or  any  other 
favour  from  you.' 

'You  have  no  reason.     But  go  on/ 

'We  came  here,  you  know' — his  voice  dropped  to  a  whis- 
per, but  I  heard  what  he  said — 'in  order  to  escape  a  great 
danger.' 

'I  heard.  You  told  me.  The  danger  was  in  connection 
with  a  gentleman  and  a  post-chaise.' 

'A  villainous  charge,'  said  the  Captain. 

'Villainous  indeed,'  repeated  the  Bishop.  'I  could  prove 
to  you  in  five  minutes  and  quite  to  your  satisfaction  that 
the  Captain  was  engaged  at  Newmarket  on  the  day  in  ques- 
tion, while  I  myself  was  conducting  a  funeral  in  place  of  the 
Vicar  in  a  country  village  thirty  miles  on  the  other  side  of 
London.' 

'An  excellent  defence,  truly.  But  I  will  leave  that  to  the 
lawyers.  Well,  the  debt  was  sworn  against  you  by  Mr. 
Merridew.'  I  pricked  up  my  ears  at  this  because  this  was 
the  name  of  the  man,  as  you  shall  hear,  who  swore  a  debt 
which  never  existed  against  me.  Could  there  be  two  Mer- 
ridews  ? 

'That  was  mere  form.  Unfortunately  other  detainers  are 
out  against  both  of  us.  I  know  not  how  they  found  out  that 
we  were  here.  Mr.  Merridew  refuses  to  take  us  out.  He 
says  that  he  thinks  our  time  is  up,  and  so  he  knows  that  we 
are  safe.'  He  shuddered.  Afterwards  I  understood  why. 
'There  is  the  danger  that  we  may  have  to  remain  here  till  he 

takes  us  out.  As  for  our  present  necessities '  He 

drew  out  his  purse  and  dangled  it — a  long  purse  with  a  very 
few  guineas  in  it.  'You  see,  Madam,  to  stay  here,  where 
there  is  no  opportunity  of  honest  work,  is  ruin  and  starva- 
tion/ 

'Honest  work!  Why,  if  you  go  out,  you  will  only  con- 
tinue in  your  old  courses/ 

'They  are  at  least  honest  and  even  pious  courses/  said  the 
Bishop  with  a  snuffle. 

'As  you  please.     But  there  is  still  the  former  danger/ 

'No.  The  gentleman  understands  now  that  he  only  mis- 
laid his  pocket-book.  Mr.  Merridew  found  it  for  him.  The 
drafts  and  notes  were  still  in  it,  fortunately.  The  gentle- 
man has  redeemed  the  papers  from  Mr,  Merridew,  He  will 
not  take  any  further  steps/ 


io  The  Orange  Girl 

'If  I  take  you  out/  she  spoke  to  the  Captain,  'you  know 
what  will  happen.  Better  stay  here  in  safety/ 

'What  else  can  a  man  do?'  asked  the  Captain. 

'You  might  go  abroad ;  go  to  America — anything  is  bet- 
ter than  the  Road  and  the  certain  end.'  She  made  a  ges- 
ture with  her  hand,  easy  to  be  understood. 

'If  a  man  has  a  long  rope,  what  else  can  he  expect?' 

'And  you?'  she  turned  to  the  Bishop,  'what  will  become 
of  you?  Will  you  stay  in  London  where  you  are  known  in 
every  street?' 

'I  have  had  thoughts  of  trying  Ireland.  A  good  many 
things  can  be  done  in  Ireland.  The  Irish  are  a  confiding 
people.' 

'Do  what  you  please.  It  is  nothing  to  me  what  becomes 
of  both  of  you.  I  interfere  because — oh!  you  know  why. 
And  as  for  your  future — that,  I  suppose,  will  be  arranged 
for  you  by  your  friend  Mr.  Merridew. 

Putting  together  what  my  friend  the  starveling  poet  told 
me  and  what  they  themselves  confessed,  they  were  clearly  a 
pair  of  rogues,  and  she  knew  it,  and  she  was  going  to  help 
them.  Charity  covereth  a  multitude  of  sins.  Yet,  surely, 
it  was  remarkable  that  a  gentlewoman  should  come  to  the 
King's  Bench  Prison  in  order  to  send  two  abominable  crim- 
inals back  to  their  old  haunts. 

'Any  place  is  better  than  this/  said  the  Captain. 

'Much  better  than  this/  echoed  the  Bishop.  'Give  me 
freedom  while  I  live.  A  short  life — '  but  he  was  certainly 
past  forty — 'and  a  free  life,  for  me/ 

'How  much  is  it,  then,  altogether,  for  the  pair  of  you?' 

'The  detainers,  not  counting  Mr.  Merridew's,  amount  to 
close  upon  seventy  pounds.  Then  there  are  the  costs  and 
the  fees/ 

'Oh !'  she  cried  impatiently,  'what  is  the  good  of  setting 
you  loose  again?  Why  should  I  let  loose  upon  the  world 
such  a  pair  of  rogues?  Why  not  keep  you  here  so  that 
you  may  at  least  die  in  your  beds?' 

The  Bishop  looked  astonished  at  this  outburst.  'Why/ 
he  said,  slowly,  'we  are  what  we  are.  That  is  true.  What 
else  can  we  be?  Nobody  knows  better  than  you  what  we 
are.  Come,  now,  nobody,  I  say,  knows  better  than  you 
what  \ve  are/ 

'Yes/  she  replied  with  a  sigh.  'I  do  know  very  well — I 
wish  I  did  not/ 


Prologue  1 1 


And  nobody  knows  better  than  you/  he  went  on,  roughly, 
'that  what  we  are  we  must  continue  to  be.  What  else  can 
we  do?' 

'Say  no  more/  she  replied,  sighing  again.  'There  is  no 
help,  I  suppose.  When  I  made  up  my  mind  to  come  here 
at  all,  I  made  up  my  mind  that  I  would  take  you  out — both 
of  you.  Yet — it  is  like  walking  over  a  grave,  I  shiver' — 
she  did  actually  shiver  as  she  spoke.  'I  feel  as  if  I  were 
contriving  a  mischief  for  myself.  These  signs  always 
come  true — a  mischief/  she  repeated,  'to  myself — indeed 
she  was,  as  you  shall  afterwards  learn.  'As  for  the  world 
you  will  certainly  do  as  much  mischief  to  that  as  you  can.' 

'As  we  can,  Madam/  said  the  Bishop  with  a  smile — he 
was  easy  now  that  he  knew  her  mind.  Before,  he  was  in- 
clined to  be  rough.  'The  world,  on  the  other  hand,  is  al- 
ways trying  to  do  a  mischief  to  me/ 

''But  mischief  to  you,  Madam?'  cried  the  captain,  that 
mirror  of  gallantry.  '  A  soldier  is  all  gratitude  and  honour. 
Mischief  to  you  ?  Impossible !' 

'And  a  Divine/  added  the  other  with  a  grin,  'is  all 
truth,  fidelity,  and  honesty.  His  profession  compels  these 
qualities.' 

'Quite  so.  Well,  gentlemen  of  honour  and  truth,  you 
shall  once  more  return  to  the  scenes  and  the  pursuits  and 
the  companions  that  you  love.  Moll  and  Doll  and  Poll  im- 
patiently await  you  at  the  Black  Jack.  And  I  see,  only  a 
short  mile  from  that  hospitable  place,  another  refuge — call 
it  the  Black  Jug — where  before  long  you  will  pass  a  few 
pleasant  days  of  rest  and  repose  before  going  forth  in  a 
glorious  procession/ 

'If  we  go  forth  in  that  procession,  murmured  the  Bishop 
with  lowering  face,  'there  are  other  people  quite  as  deserv- 
ing, who  will  sit  there  beside  us/ 

'Go/  she  said.  'I  have  talked  enough  and  more  than 
enough  with  such  as  you.  Go/ 

They  bowed  again  and  walked  away. 

Now  I  heard  this  interview,  half  of  which  I  did  not  un- 
derstand, with  amazement  unspeakable.  The  lady  was  go- 
ing to  release  this  pair  of  villains — Why?  Out  of  the 
boundless  charity  of  her  benevolent  heart? 

She  looked  after  the  precious  pair,  standing  for  a  mo- 
ment with  her  hand  shading  her  eyes.  The  light  went  out 
of  her  face :  a  cloud  fell  upon  it :  she  sighed  again :  her  lips 


1 2  The  Orange  Girl 

parted :  she  caught  her  breath.  Ah !  Poor  lady !  Thy  face 
was  made  for  joy  and  not  for  sorrow.  What  thought,  what 
memory,  was  it  that  compelled  the  cloud  and  chased  away 
the  sunshine? 

She  turned  her  head — she  moved  away.  I  was  still  stand- 
ing at  my  window  looking  on :  as  she  passed  she  started  and 
stopped  short,  her  face  expressing  the  greatest  possible  be- 
wilderment and  amazement. 

'It  is  not  . ..'  she  cried — 'Surely — No — Yet  the  resem- 
blance is  so  great.  Sir,  I  thought — at  first — you  were  a 
gentleman  of  my  acquaintance.  You  are  so  much  like  him 
that  I  venture  to  ask  you  who  you  are?' 

'A  prison  bird,  Madam.     Nothing  more/ 

'Yes,  but  you  are  so  like  that  gentleman.  May  I  ask 
your  name?' 

'My  name,  at  your  service,  Madam,  is  Halliday.  My 
friends  call  me  Will  Halliday. 

'Will  Halliday.  Are  you  a  brother — but  that  cannot  be 
—of  Mr.  Matthew  Halliday?' 

'I  am  his  first  cousin/ 

'Matthew  Halliday's  first  cousin?  But  he  is  rich.  Does 
he  allow  you  to  remain  in  this  place?' 

'It  is  not  only  by  the  sufferance  of  my  cousin  Matthew 
but  by  his  desire  that  I  am  here/ 

'By  his  desire !  Yes — I  know  something  of  your  cousin, 
sir.  It  is  by  his  desire.  I  discover  new  virtues  in  your 
cousin  the  more  I  learn  of  him.  I  suppose,  then,  that  you 
are  not  on  friendly  terms  with  your  cousin?' 

'I  am  not  indeed.     Quite  the  contrary/ 

'Can  you  tell  me  the  reason  why  ?' 

'Because  he  desires  my  death.  Therefore  he  has  caused 
my  arrest — he  and  an  attorney  of  the  devil — named  Probus/ 

'Oh !  Probus !  I  have  heard  of  that  Probus.  Sir,  I  would 
willingly  hear  more  concerning  this  matter  and  your  cousin 
and  Mr.  Probus,  if  you  will  kindly  tell  me.  I  must  now 
go,  but  with  your  permission  I  will  come  again.  It  is  not 
I  assure  you,  out  of  idle  curiosity  that  I  ask  these  questions/ 

The  next  day,  or  the  day  after,  the  Captain  and  the  Bishop 
walked  out  of  the  Prison.  When  they  were  gone  open  talk 
went  round  the  Prison,  perhaps  started  by  the  Poet,  that 
one  was  a  highwayman  and  the  other  a  sharper — perhaps  a 
forger — a  contriver  of  plots  and  plans  to  deceive  the  un- 
wary. I  marvelled  that  they  should  have  received  the 


Prologue  1 3 

bounty  of  so  fine  a  lady,  for  indeed,  whether  highwayman  or 
sharper  or  honest  men,  they  were  as  foul-mouthed  a  pair  of 
reprobates — drunken  withal — as  we  had  in  the  prison. 

And  then  I  remembered,  suddenly,  the  reason  why  I  rec- 
ognised the  lady's  voice  and  why  there  was  something  in 
the  face  also  that  I  seemed  to  know.  I  had  been  but  once 
in  my  life  to  the  Theatre.  On  that  occasion  there  was  an 
actress  whose  beauty  and  vivacity  gave  me  the  greatest 
possible  delight.  One  may  perhaps  forget  the  face  of  an 
actress  playing  a  part,  because  she  alters  her  face  with  every 
part:  but  her  voice,  when  it  is  a  sweet  voice,  one  remem- 
bers. The  lady  was  that  actress.  I  remembered  her 
— and  her  name.  She  was  Miss  Jenny  Wilmot  of  Drury 
Lane. 


PART  I 
HOW  I  GOT  INTO  THE  KING'S  BENCH 


CHAPTER  I 

I  AM   TURNED  OUT  INTO  THE  WORLD 

IN  the  year  1760  or  thereabouts,  everybody  knew  the  name 
of  Sir  Peter  Halliday,  Merchant.  The  House  in  which  Sir 
Peter  was  the  Senior  Partner  possessed  a  fleet  of  West  In- 
diamen  which  traded  between  the  Port  of  London  and  Ja- 
maica, Barbadoes,  and  the  other  English  Islands,  taking 
out  all  kinds  of  stuffs,  weapons,  implements,  clothing,  wine, 
silks,  gloves,  and  everything  else  that  the  planters  could 
want,  and  returning  laden  with  sugar  in  bags,  mahogany, 
arrack,  and  whatever  else  the  islands  produce.  Our  wharf 
was  that  which  stands  next  to  the  Tower  stairs :  the  count- 
ing-house was  on  the  wharf:  there  the  clerks  worked  daily 
from  seven  in  the  morning  till  eight  at  night.  As  a  boy  it 
was  my  delight  to  go  on  board  the  ships  when  they  arrived. 
There  I  ran  up  and  down  the  companion:  into  the  dark 
lower  deck  where  the  midshipmen  messed  and  slept  among 
the  flying  cockroaches,  which  buzzed  into  their  faces  and  the 
rats  which  ran  over  them  and  the  creatures  which  infest  a 
ship  in  hot  latitudes  and  come  on  board  with  the  gunny- 
bags,  such  as  centipedes,  scorpions,  and  great  spiders.  And 
I  would  stand  and  watch  the  barges  when  they  came  along- 
side to  receive  the  cargo.  Then  with  a  yeo-heave-oh !  and 
a  chantey  of  the  sailors,  mostly  meaningless,  yet  pleasant  to 
hear,  they  tossed  the  bags  of  sugar  into  the  barge  as  if  they 
were  loaves  of  bread,  and  the  casks  of  rum  as  if  they  had 
been  pint  pots.  Or  I  would  talk  to  the  sailors  and  hear  sto- 


1 6  The  Orange  Girl 

ries  of  maroon  niggers  and  how  the  planters  engaged  the 
sailors  to  go  ashore  in  search  of  these  fierce  runaways  and 
shoot  them  down  in  the  mountains :  and  stories  of  shark  and 
barra  coota :  of  hurricanos  and  islands  where  men  had  been 
put  ashore  to  starve  and  die  miserably :  of  pirates,  of  whom 
there  have  always  been  plenty  in  the  Caribbean  Sea  since 
that  ocean  was  first  discovered.  Strange  things  these  sailors 
brought  home  with  them:  coral,  pink  and  white:  preserved 
flying-fish :  creatures  put  in  spirits :  carved  cocoanuts :  every- 
body knows  the  treasures  of  the  sailor  arrived  in  port. 

This,  I  say,  was  my  delight  as  a  boy:  thus  I  learned  to 
think  of  things  outside  the  narrow  bounds  of  the  counting- 
house  and  the  City  walls.  Marvellous  it  is  to  mark  how 
while  the  Pool  is  crammed  with  ships  from  all  parts  of  the 
world,  the  Londoner  will  go  on  in  ignorance  of  any  world 
beyond  the  walls  of  the  City  or  the  boundaries  of  his  par- 
ish. Therefore,  I  say,  it  was  better  for  me  than  the  study 
of  Moll's  Geography  to  converse  with  these  sailors  and  to 
listen  to  their  adventures. 

Another  thing  they  taught  me.  It  is  well  known  that 
on  board  every  ship  there  is  one,  at  least,  who  can  play  the 
fiddle.  A  ship  without  a  fiddler  is  robbed  of  the  sailors' 
chief  joy.  Now,  ever  since  I  remember  anything  I  was 
always  making  music:  out  of  the  whistle  pipe:  the  twang- 
ing Jews'  harp :  the  comb  and  paper :  but  above  all  out  of  the 
fiddle.  I  had  a  fiddle :  I  found  it  in  ,a  garret  of  our  house 
in  Great  College  Street.  I  made  a  sailor  tell  me  how  to 
practise  upon  it :  whenever  one  of  our  ships  put  into  port  I 
made  friends  with  the  fiddler  on  board  and  got  more  les- 
sons; so  that  I  was  under  instruction,  in  this  rude  manner 
for  the  greater  part  of  the  year,  and  before  I  was  twelve  I 
could  play  anything  readily  and  after  the  fashion,  rough  and 
vigorous,  of  the  sailors  with  whom  strength  of  arm  reckons 
before  style. 

I  belong  to  a  family  which  for  nearly  two  hundred  years 
have  been  Puritans.  Some  of  them  were  preachers  and 
divines  under  Crcmwell.  Their  descendants  retained  the 
strict  observance  of  opinions  which  forbid  mirth  and  merri- 
ment, even  among  young  people.  Although  they  conformed 
to  the  Church  of 'England,  they  held  that  music  of  all  kinds : 
the  theatre:  dancing  at  the  Assembly:  reading  poetry  and 
tales:  and  wearing  of  fine  dress  must  be  sinful,  because  they 
call  attention  from  the  salvation  of  the  soul,  the  only  thing 


How  I  Got  Into  the  King's  Bench        17 

about  which  the  sinner  ought  to  think.  Why  it  was  worse 
to  let  the  mind  dwell  upon  music  than  upon  money-getting 
I  know  not,  nor  have  I  ever  been  able  to  discover.  It  will  be 
understood,  however,  that  ours  was  a  strict  household.  It 
consisted  of  my  father,  myself,  a  housekeeper  and  five  ser- 
vants, all  godly.  We  had  long  prayers,  morning  and  even- 
ing; we  attended  the  Church  o:  St.  Stephen  Walbrook,  in- 
stead of  our  own  parish  church  of  St.  Michael  Paternoster, 
because  there  was  no  organ  in  it :  we  went  to  church  on  Sun- 
days twice:  and  twice  in  the  week  to  the  Gift  Lectures,  of 
which  there  were  two.  My  father  was  a  stern  man,  of  great 
dignity.  When  he  was  Lord  Mayor  he  was  greatly  feared 
by  malefactors.  He  was  of  a  full  habit  of  body,  with  a 
large  red  face,  his  neck  swollen  into  rolls.  Like  all  mer- 
chants in  his  position  he  drank  a  great  deal  of  port,  of  which 
he  possessed  a  noble  cellar. 

I  have  often  wondered  why  it  was  never  discovered  that  I 
practised  the  fiddle  in  the  garret.  To  be  sure,  it  was  only 
at  those  hours  when  my  father  was  on  the  wharf.  When 
I  had  the  door  shut  and  the  windows  open  the  maids  be- 
low thought,  I  suppose,  that  the  sounds  came  from  the  next 
house.  However  that  may  be,  I  was  never  found  out. 

Now  this  fondness  for  music  produced  an  unfortunate  re- 
sult. The  sight  of  a  book  of  arithmetic  always  filled  me  with 
a  disgust  unspeakable.  The  sight  of  a  book  of  accounts  in- 
spired me  with  loathing.  The  daily  aspect  of  my  father's 
clerks  all  sitting  in  a  row  on  high  stools,  and  all  driving  the 
quill  with  heads  bending  over  the  paper,  made  me,  even  as  a 
child,  believe  theirs  to  be  the  most  miserable  lot  that  Fortune 
has  to  offer  her  most  unhappy  victims.  I  still  think  so. 
.Give  me  any  other  kind  of  life:  make  me  a  bargee:  a  coal- 
heaver:  a  sailor  before  the  mast:  an  apothecary:  a  school- 
master's usher:  in  all  these  occupations  there  will  be  some- 
thing to  redeem  the  position :  but  for  the  accountant  there  is 
nothing.  All  day  long  he  sits  within  four  walls :  his  pay  is 
miserable :  his  food  is  insufficient :  when  in  the  evening  he 
crawls  away,  there  is  only  time  left  for  him  to  take  a  little 
supper  and  go  to  his  miserable  bed. 

Imagine,  therefore,  my  loathing  when  I  understood  that 
at  the  age  of  sixteen  I  was  to  take  my  place  among  these 
unfortunates,  and  to  work  my  way  towards  the  succession 
which  awaited  me — the  partnership  held  by  my  father — by 
becoming  a  clerk  like  unto  these  others  whom  I  had  always 


1 8  The  Orange  Girl 

pitied  and  generally  despised.  From  that  lot,  however, 
there  was  no  escape.  All  the  partners,  from  father  to  son, 
had  so  worked  their  way.  The  reason  of  this  rule  was  that 
the  young  men  in  this  way  acquired  a  knowledge  of  the  busi- 
ness in  all  its  branches  before  they  were  called  upon  to  direct 
its  enterprise,  and  to  enter  upon  new  ventures.  I  daresay 
that  it  was  a  good  practical  rule.  But  in  my  own  case  I 
found  it  almost  intolerable. 

I  was  unlike  the  clerks  in  one  or  two  respects :  I  had  good 
food  and  plenty  of  it.  And  I  received  no  salary. 

I  had  a  cousin,  named  Matthew,  son  of  my  father's 
younger  brother  and  partner,  Alderman  Paul  Halliday,  Cit- 
izen and  Lorimer,  who  had  not  yet  passed  the  chair.  Mat- 
thew, though  his  father  was  the  younger  son,  was  three  or 
four  years  older  than  myself.  He,  therefore,  mounted  the 
clerks'  stool  so  many  years  before  me.  He  was  a  young 
man  with  a  face  and  carriage  serious  and  thoughtful  (to  all 
appearance)  beyond  his  years.  He  had  a  trick  of  dropping 
his  eyes  while  he  talked:  his  face  was  always  pale  and  his 
hands  were  always  clammy.  Other  young  men  who  had 
been  at  school  with  him  spoke  of  him  with  disrespect  and 
even  hatred,  but  I  know  not  why.  In  a  word,  Matthew  had 
no  friends  among  those  of  his  own  age.  On  the  other  hand, 
the  older  people  thought  highly  of  him.  My  father  spoke 
with  praise  of  his  capacity  for  business  and  of  his  industry, 
and  of  the  grasp  of  detail  which  he  had  already  begun  to 
show.  As  for  me,  I  could  never  like  my  cousin,  and  what 
happened  when  I  was  about  eighteen  years  of  age  gave  me 
no  reason  to  like  him  any  better. 

I  had  been  in  the  counting-house  for  two  years,  each 
day  feeling  like  a  week  for  duration.  But  the  question  of 
rebellion  had  so  far  never  occurred  to  me.  I  could  no 
longer  practise  in  the  garret  while  my  father  was  in  the 
counting-house.  But  I  could  get  away,  on  pretence  of  busi- 
ness to  the  ships,  and  snatch  an  hour  below  with  the  fiddler. 
And  in  the  evening  sometimes,  when  my  father  was  feast- 
ing with  a  City  Company  or  engaged  in  other  business  out 
of  the  house,  I  could  take  boat  across  the  river  and  run  over 
to  St.  George's  Fields,  there  to  have  half  an  hour  of  play 
with  a  musician,  of  whom  you  shall  learn  more,  called 
Tom  Shirley.  After  the  manner  of  youths  I  never  asked 
myself  how  long  this  would  go  on  without  discovery:  or 
what  would  be  the  result  when  it  was  discovered.  Yet  I 


How  I  Got  Into  the  King's  Bench        19 

knew  very  well  that  no  Quaker  could  be  more  decided  as  to 
the  sinfulness  of  music  than  my  father  and  my  uncle.  Had 
not  the  great  and  Reverend  Samuel  Halliday,  D.  D., 
preached  before  the  Protector  on  the  subject  of  the  snares 
spread  by  the  devil  to  catch  souls  by  means  of  music? 

Now,  one  afternoon  in  the  month  of  June,  when  the  count- 
ing-house is  more  than  commonly  terrible,  a  message  came 
to  me  that  my  father  wished  to  speak  with  me. 

I  found  him  in  his  own  room,  his  brother  Paul  sitting 
with  him.  His  face  showed  astonishment  and  anger;  that 
of  his  brother  presented  some  appearance  of  sorrow — real 
or  not,  I  cannot  say.  My  uncle  Paul  was,  as  often  happens 
in  a  family,  a  reduced  copy  of  his  elder  brother.  He  was 
not  so  tall:  not  so  portly:  not  so  red  in  the  face:  not  so 
swollen  in  the  neck:  yet  he  was  tall  and  portly  and  red  and 
swollen.  He  was  shaking  his  head  as  I  entered  saying, 
'Dear !  dear !  dear !  And  in  our  family  too — in  our  family !' 

'Son  William/  said  my  father,  'I  have  heard  a  serious 
thing/ 

'What  is  that,  Sir,  if  I  may  ask?' 

'I  learn  from  my  brother,  who  had  it  from  Matthew ' 

'From  Matthew/  my  uncle  interposed  solemnly. 

'That  you  lose  no  opportunity  of  getting  away  from  your 
'desk  to  go  on  board  our  ships  in  the  Pool,  there  to  play 
the  fiddle  with  the  common  sailors — to  play  the  riddle — the 
common  fiddle — like  a  fellow  with  a  bear — with  the  common 
sailors.  I  hear  that  our  Captains  and  officers  are  all  ac- 
quainted with  this  unworthy  pastime  of  yours !  I  hear, 
further,  that  you  have  formed  an  acquaintance  with  a  cer- 
tain fellow  named  Shirley,  now  a  prisoner  in  the  Rules  of 
the  King's  Bench,  one  who  makes  a  sinful  living  by  playing 
wanton  music  for  lewd  and  wicked  persons  at  what  are 
called  Pleasure  Gardens,  whither  resort  such  company  as  no 
godly  youth  should  meet.  And  I  hear  that  you  spend  such 
time  as  you  can  spare  under  the  tuition  of  this  person/ 

He  stopped.     My  uncle  took  up  the  word. 

'All  these  things  I  am  assured  by  my  son  Matthew  to 
be  the  case.  I  have  informed  Matthew  that  in  my  opinion 
it  was  right  and  even  necessary  that  they  should  be  brought 
before  the  notice  of  my  brother/ 

'I  wait  thy  reply,  Will/  said  my  father. 

'It  is  all  quite  true,  Sir/ 

'Quite  true/     I  felt  a  little  sinking  of  the  heart  because 


2O  The  Orange  Girl 

of  the  disappointment  and  sadness  in  his  voice.  'But/  he 
went  on,  'what  is  the  meaning  of  it?  For  my  own  part 
I  see  no  good  purpose  to  be  gained  by  music.  On  the  other 
hand  my  grandfather,  the  Rev.  Dr.  Samuel  Halliday,  hath 
clearly  shown  in  his  book  of  godly  discourses,  that  music, 
especially  music  with  dancing,  is  the  surest  bait  by  which 
the  devil  draws  souls  to  destruction.  People,  I  am  aware, 
will  have  music.  At  our  Company's  feasts  music  attends: 
at  the  Lord  Mayor's  banquets  there  is  music:  at  the  Lord 
Mayor's  Show  there  is  music:  at  many  churches  there  is 
an  organ:  but  what  hast  thou  to  do  with  music,  Will?  It 
is  thy  part  to  become  a  merchant,  bent  on  serious  work: 
and  outside  the  counting-house  to  become  a  magistrate. 
What  hast  thou  to  do  with  music?' 

He  spoke,  being  much  moved,  kindly — because — alas! 
he  loved  his  son. 

'Sir/  I  said,  'it  is  all  most  true.  There  is  nothing  that 
I  love  so  much  as  music/ 

'Consider/  he  went  on.  'There  is  no  place  for  music  in 
the  life  before  thee.  All  day  long  learning  thy  work  in 
the  counting-house:  some  time  to  succeed  me  in  this  room. 
How  is  it  possible  for  a  young  man  who  stoops  to  make 
music  on  catgut  with  a  bow  to  become  a  serious  merchant, 
respected  in  the  City?' 

'Indeed,  Sir,  I  do  not  know/ 

'How  will  it  be  possible  for  you  to  advance  the  interests 
of  the  House — nay,  to  maintain  the  interests  of  the  House, 
when  it  is  known  that  you  are  a  common  scraper  in  a  crowd 
like  a  one-legged  man  with  a  Jack  in  the  Green  ?' 

Now  I  might  even  then  have  submitted  and  promised 
and  given  up  my  fiddle  and  so  pleased  my  father  and  re- 
mained in  his  favour.  But  thic  was  one  of  those  moments 
which  are  turning-points  in  a  man's  life.  Besides  I  was 
young;  I  was  inexperienced.  And  an  overwhelming  dis- 
gust fell  upon  my  soul  as  I  thought  of  the  counting-house 
and  the  ledgers  and  the  long  hours  in  the  dingy  place  driv- 
ing the  quill  all  day  long.  So  without  understanding  what 
the  words  meant,  I  broke  out  impatiently: 

'Sir/  I  said,  'with  submission,  I  would  ask  your  leave 
to  give  up  my  place  in  this  office/ 

'Give  up?  Give  up?'  he  cried,  growing  purple  in  the 
face.  'Does  the  boy  know  what  he  means  ?' 

'Give  up?'  cried  my  uncle.     'Is  the  boy  mad?    Give  up 


GIVE    UI'!'    UK    CRIED,    GROWING    PURPLE    IN    THE   FACE." 


How  I  Got  Into  the  King's  Bench        21 

his  prospects  in  this  House — this — the  soundest  House  in 
the  whole  City?  Nephew  Will,  wouldst  starve?' 

'I  will  make  a  living  by  music/ 

'Make  a  living — a  living — make  a  living — by  music? 
What  ?  To  play  the  fiddle  in  a  tavern  ?  To  play  in  the  gal- 
lery while  your  father  is  feasting  below?' 

'Nay,  sir;  but  there  are  other  ways.' 

'Hark  ye,  Will;  let  this  stop.  Back  to  thy  desk  lest 
something  happen.'  My  father  spoke  with  sudden  stern- 
ness. 

'Nay,  sirj  but  I  am  serious/ 

'Ay — ay?  Serious?  Then  I  am  serious,  too.  Under- 
stand, then,  that  I  own  no  son  who  disgraces  the  City  fam- 
ily to  which  he  belongs  by  becoming  a  common  musician. 
Choose.  Take  thy  fiddle  and  give  up  me — this  office — thine 
inheritance — thine  inheritance,  mind,  or  lay  down  the  fiddle 
and  go  back  to  thy  desk.  There,  sir,  I  am,  I  hope,  serious 
enough/ 

He  was.  My  father  was  a  masterful  man  at  all  times; 
he  was  perfectly  serious.  Now  the  sons  of  masterful  men 
are  themselves  often  masterful.  I  walked  out  of  the  count- 
ing-house without  a  word. 

I  am  conscious  that  then  is  no  excuse  for  a  disobedient 
son.  I  ought  to  have  accepted  any  orders  that  my  father 
might  choose  to  lay  upon  me.  But  to  part  with  my  fiddle, 
to  give  up  music:  to  abandon  that  sweet  refreshment  of 
the  soul:  oh!  it  was  too  much. 

Moreover,  no  one  knew  better  than  myself  the  inveterate 
hatred  with  which  my  father  and  the  whole  of  my  family 
regarded  what  they  called  the  tinkling  cymbal  which  they 
thought  leads  souls  to  destruction.  Had  I  seen  any  gleam 
of  hope  that  there  would  be  a  relenting,  I  would  have 
waited.  But  there  was  none.  Therefore  I  cast  obedience 
to  the  winds,  and  left  the  room  without  a  word. 

Had  I  known  what  awaited  me :  the  misfortunes  which 
were  to  drag  me  down  almost  unto  a  shameful  death,  in 
consequence  of  this  act  of  disobedience,  I  might  have  given 
way. 

But  perhaps  not:  for  in  all  my  troubles  there  were  two 
things  which  cheered  and  sustained  me,  I  enjoyed  at  all 
times,  so  you  shall  learn,  the  support  of  love  and  the  re- 
freshment of  music. 

Had  my  father  known  of  these  misfortunes  would  he 


22  The  Orange  Girl 

have  given  way?  I  doubt  it.  Misfortune  does  not  destroy 
the  soul,  but  music  does.  So  he  would  say  and  so  think, 
and  conduct  his  relations  with  his  own  accordingly. 

I  walked  out  of  the  counting-house.  At  the  door  I  met, 
face  to  face,  the  informer,  my  cousin  Matthew,  who  had 
caused  all  this  trouble. 

He  was  attired  as  becomes  a  responsible  merchant,  though 
as  yet  only  a  clerk  or  factor  with  the  other  clerks.  He  wore 
a  brown  coat  with  silver  buttons :  white  silk  stockings :  sil- 
ver buckles  in  his  shoes :  silver  braid  upon  his  hat :  a  silver 
chain  with  seals  hanging  from  his  fob :  with  white  lace  ruf- 
fles and  neckerchief  as  fine  as  those  of  his  father,  or  of  any 
merchant  on  Change. 

He  met  me,  I  say,  face  to  face,  and  for  the  first  time  within 
my  knowledge,  he  grinned  when  he  met  me.  For  he  knew 
what  had  been  said  to  me.  He  grinned  with  a  look  of  such 
devilish  glee  that  I  understood  for  the  first  time  how  much 
he  hated  me.  Why?  I  had  never  crossed  him.  Because 
I  was  the  son  of  the  senior  partner  whose  place  I  was  to 
take  and  of  the  richer  man  of  the  two  Partners.  His 
would  be  the  subordinate  position  with  a  third  only  of  the 
profits.  Therefore  my  cousin  hated  me.  He,  I  say,  noted 
my  discomfiture.  Now,  at  that  moment,  I  was  in  no  mood 
for  mockery. 

Something  in  my  face  stopped  his  grinning.  He  became 
suddenly  grave :  he  dropped  his  eyes :  he  made  as  if  he  would 
pass  by  me  and  so  into  the  house. 

'Villain  and  maker  of  mischief !'  I  cried.  Then  I  fell  upon 
him.  I  had  but  fists:  he  had  a  stick:  I  was  eighteen:  he 
was  five-and-twenty :  he  was  heavier  and  taller :  well ;  there 
is  lettle  credit,  because  he  was  a  poor  fighter :  in  two  minutes 
I  had  his  stick  from  him,  and  in  three  more  I  had  broken  it 
over  his  head  and  his  shoulders.  However,  had  his  wind  and 
his  strength  equalled  his  hatred  and  desire  that  the  stick 
should  be  broken  over  my  shoulders  instead  of  his,  the  re- 
sult would  have  been  different. 

'You  shall  pay — you  shall  pay — you  shall  pay  for  this/  he 
gasped,  lying  prostrate. 

I  kicked  him  out  of  my  way  as  if  he  had  been  a  dog  and 
strode  off,  my  cheek  aflame,  my  hand  trembling  and  my 
limbs  stiffened  with  the  joy  of  the  fight  and  the  victory. 
Come  what  might,  I  had  whipped  my  cousin,  like  the  cur 
he  was.  A  thing  to  remember. 


How  I  Got  Into  the  King's  Bench        23 

I  have  never  repented  that  act  of  justice.  The  memory  of 
it  brought  many  woes  upon  me,  but  I  have  never  repented 
or  regretted  it.  And  certain  I  am  that  to  the  day  of  his 
miserable  death  Matthew  never  forgot  it.  Nor  did  I. 


CHAPTER  II 

A  CITY  OF  REFUGE 

MY  last  recollection  of  the  counting-house  is  that  of  Mat- 
thew lying  in  a  heap  and  shaking  his  fist,  at  me,  while,  be- 
hind, my  uncle's  face  looks  out  amazed  upon  the  spectacle 
from  one  door,  and  the  clerks  in  a  crowd  contemplate  the 
discomfiture  of  Mr.  Matthew  from  another  door.  Then 
I  strode  off,  I  say,  like  a  gamecock  after  a  victory,  head 
erect,  cheek  flushed,  legs  straight.  Ha !  I  am  always  glad 
that  I  drubbed  my  cousin,  just  once.  A  righteous  drub- 
bing it  was,  too,  if  ever  there  was  one.  It  hanselled  the 
new  life.  After  it,  there  was  no  return  possible. 

And  so  home — though  the  house  in  College  Street  could 
no  longer  be  called  a  home — I  now  had  no  home — I  was 
turned  into  the  street.  However,  I  went  upstairs  to  my 
own  room — mine  no  longer.  I  looked  about.  In  the  cup- 
board I  found  a  black  box  in  which  I  placed  everything  I 
could  call  my  own:  my  music;  my  linen  and  my  clothes. 
On  the  wall  hung  the  miniature  of  my  mother.  Happily  she 
had  not  lived  to  see  the  banishment  of  her  son :  this  I  put  in 
my  pocket.  The  fiddle  I  laid  in  its  case.  Then  with  my 
cudgel  under  my  arm  and  carrying  the  fiddle  in  one  hand 
and  the  box  on  my  shoulder  I  descended  the  stairs — now,  I 
must  confess,  with  a  sinking  heart — and  found  myself  in 
the  street. 

I  had  in  my  purse  five  guineas — the  son  of  a  most  solid 
and  substantial  merchant,  and  I  had  no  more  than  five 
guineas  in  the  world.  What  could  I  do  to  earn  a  living? 
Since  I  had  been  for  two  years  in  my  father's  counting  house 
I  might  be  supposed  to  know  something  of  affairs.  Alas! 
I  knew  nothing.  One  art  or  accomplishment  I  possessed: 
and  one  alone.  I  could  play  the  fiddle.  Now  that  I  had  to 
depend  upon  my  playing  for  a  livelihood,  1  began  to  ask 


24  The  Orange  Girl 

whether  I  could  play  well  enough.  At  all  events,  I  could 
play  vigorously.  But  the  die  was  cast.  I  had  made  my 
choice,  and  must  make  the  best  of  it.  Besides,  had  I  not 
drubbed  my  cousin  Matthew  and  that,  as  they  say,  with 
authority  ? 

You  have  heard  how  my  father  accused  me  of  intimacy 
with  a  person  named  Shirley,  a  resident  in  the  Rules  of 
the  King's  Bench.  That  charge  I  could  not  deny.  Indeed, 
the  person  named  Shirley,  by  all  his  friends  called  Tom, 
had  been  of  late  my  master.  Every  spare  hour  that  I  had 
was  spent  with  him,  practising  with  him  and  learning  from 
him.  He  taught  a  finer  style  than  I  could  learn  from  the 
sailors.  When  I  went  into  the  counting-house  I  had  no 
longer  any  spare  hours,  except  in  the  evening,  and  then  my 
master  was  engaged  earning  his  bread  in  an  orchestra.  Still 
I  could  manage  to  visit  him  sometimes  on  Sunday  even- 
ings when  my  father  was  generally  occupied  with  friends 
who  loved  likewise  to  limit  and  make  as  narrow  as  they 
could  the  mercies  of  the  Almighty. 

At  this  moment  I  could  think  of  no  one  except  Tom  Shir- 
ley who  could  help  me  or  advise  me. 

I  therefore  lugged  my  box  and  my  violin  to  the  Three 
Cranes,  and  took  boat  across  to  Moldstrand  Stairs,  from 
which  it  is  an  easy  half  mile  by  pleasant  lanes,  Love  Lane 
and  Gravel  Lane,  past  Looman's  Pond  to  St.  George's 
Fields  where  Tom  Shirley  lived. 

It  was  a  little  after  noon  when  I  arrived  at  the  house.  It 
was  one  of  three  or  four  cottages  standing  in  a  row,  every 
cottage  consisting  of  four  or  five  rooms.  They  are  pleas- 
ing retreats,  each  having  a  small  front  garden  where  lilacs, 
laburnums,  hollyhock,  sunflowers,  tulips,  and  other  flowers 
and  bushes  grow.  In  front  of  the  garden  flows  languidly 
one  of  the  many  little  streams  which  cross  the  fields  and 
meadows  of  Southwark :  a  rustic  bridge  with  a  single  hand- 
rail crosses  the  stream. 

The  region  of  St.  George's  Fields,  as  is  very  well  known, 
has  a  reputation  which,  in  fact,  is  well  deserved.  The 
fact  that  it  is  covered  with  shallow  ponds,  some  of  which 
are  little  better  than  mere  laystalls,  causes  it  to  be  fre- 
quented on  Sundays  and  on  summer  evenings  by  the  rude 
and  barbarous  people  who  come  here  to  hunt  ducks  with 
dogs — a  horrid  sport:  some  of  them  even  throw  cats  into 
the  water  and  set  their  dogs  at  them.  The  same  people 


How  I  Got  Into  the  King's  Bench        25 

come  here  for  prize  fights,  but  they  say  that  the  combatants 
have  an  understanding  beforehand  how  long  the  fight  is 
to  last :  some  come  for  quarter-staff  practice :  some  come  for 
hockey  or  for  football.  Outside  the  Fields  there  are  many 
taverns  and  places  of  entertainment:  on  the  Fields  there 
is  at  least  one,  the  notorious  Dog  and  Duck.  Every  even- 
ing except  in  winter  these  places  are  full  of  people  who  come 
to  dance  and  drink  and  sing.  Every  kind  of  wickedness  is 
openly  practised  here :  if  a  man  would  gamble,  here  are  the 
companions  for  him  and  here  are  rooms  where  he  can  play : 
if  he  would  meet  women  as  deboshed  as  himself  here  they 
may  be  found. 

It  is  unfortunate  for  Southwark  and  its  environs  that 
everything  seems  to  have  conspired  to  give  it  a  bad  name. 
First  of  all,  it  was  formerly  outside  the  jurisdiction  of  the 
City,  so  that  all  the  villains  and  criminals  of  the  City  got 
across  the  water  and  found,  refuge  here.  Next,  the  govern- 
ment of  the  place  was  not  single,  but  divided  by  the  manors, 
so  that  a  rogue  might  pass  from  one  manor  into  another 
and  so  escape :  thirdly,  the  Sanctuary  of  Southwark  tolerated 
after  the  Reformation  at  St.  Mary  Overies,  grew  to  accom- 
modate as  great  a  number  as  that  in  Westminster  where 
they  only  lately  pulled  down  the  gray  old  Tower  which 
looked  like  a  donjon  keep  rather  than  the  walls  enclosing 
two  chapels.  I  know  not  whether  there  was  such  a  tower 
at  Montagu  Close,  but  within  my  recollection  no  officer 
of  the  law  dared  to  arrest  any  sanctuary  man  in  Mint  Street 
— their  latest  refuge:  nor  did  any  person  with  property  to 
lose  venture  into  that  street.  For  first  his  hat  would  be 
snatched  off:  then  his  wig:  then  his  silk  handkerchief:  then 
he  would  be  hustled,  thrown,  and  kicked:  when  he  was 
permitted  to  get  up  it  was  without  watch,  chain,  buckles, 
shoes,  lace  cravat,  ruffles.  Fortunate  if  he  was  allowed  to 
escape  with  no  more  injury.  The  presence  of  these  villains 
was  alone  enough  to  give  the  place  a  bad  name.  But  there 
was  more.  Prisons  there  must  be,  but  in  Southwark  there 
.were  too  many.  The  King's  Bench  Prison:  the  Marshal- 
sea:  the  Borough  Compter:  the  Clink:  the  White  Lyon. 
So  many  prisons  in  a  place  so  thinly  populated  produced 
a  saddening  effect.  And,  besides,  there  are  those  who 
Jive  in  the  Rules,  which  are  themselves  a  kind  of  prison  but 
without  walls.  In  another  part,  along  the  Embankment, 
the  Show  Folk  used  to  live :  those  who  act :  those  who  write 


26  The  Orange  Girl 

plays  and  songs:  those  who  dance  and  tumble:  mimes, 
musicians,  buffoons :  and  those  who  live  by  the  bear-baiting, 
badger-baiting,  bull-baiting,  and  cock-throwing,  which  are 
the  favourite  sports  of  Southwark. 

These  considerations  are  quite  sufficient  to  account  for  the 
evil  reputation  which  clings  to  the  Borough.  They  do  not, 
however,  prevent  it  from  being  a  place  of  great  resort 
for  those  who  come  up  from  Kent  and  Surrey  on  business, 
and  they  do  not  for  obvious  reasons  prevent  the  place  from 
being  inhabited  by  the  prisoners  of  the  Rules. 

When  I  arrived,  Tom  Shirley  was  playing  on  the  harp- 
sichord, his  head  in  a  white  nightcap,  his  wig  hanging  on 
a  nail.  As  he  played,  not  looking  at  notes  or  keys,  his 
face  was  turned  upwards  and  his  eyes  were  rapt.  As  one 
watched  him  his  face  changed  in  expression  with  the  various 
emotions  of  the  music:  no  man,  certainly,  was  more  moved 
by  music  than  Tom  Shirley.  No  man,  also,  could  more 
certainly  bring  out  the  very  soul  of  the  music,  the  inner 
thought  of  the  composer.  He  played  as  if  he  loved  play- 
ing, which  indeed  he  did  whether  it  was  a  country  dance, 
or  a  minuet  or  an  oratorio  or  a  Roman  Catholic  Mass.  It 
was  a  fine  face,  delicate  in  outline;  full  of  expression:  the 
face  of  a  musician:  it  lacked  the  firmness  which  belongs  to 
one  who  fights:  he  was  no  gladiator  in  the  arena:  a  face 
full  of  sweetness.  Everyone  loved  Tom  Shirley.  As  for 
age,  he  was  then  about  five-and-twenty. 

I  stood  at  the  open  door  and  looked  in,  listening,  for  at 
such  moments  he  heard  nothing.  There  was  another  door 
opposite  leading  to  the  kitchen,  where  his  wife  was  engaged 
in  some  domestic  work.  Presently,  she  lifted  her  head  and 
saw  me.  'Father/  she  cried.  'Here  is  Will!' 

He  heard  that :  brought  his  fingers  down  with  a  splendid 
chord  and  sprang  to  his  feet.  'Will?  In  the  morning? 
What  is  the  meaning — why  this  box  ?' 

'I  have  come  away,  Tom.  I  have  left  the  counting-house 
for  good/ 

'What?  You  have  deserted  the  money  bags?  You  have 
run  away  for  the  sake  of  music  ?' 

'My  father  has  turned  me  out/ 

'And  you  have  chosen  music.  Good — good — what  could 
you  have  done  better?  Wife,  hear  this.  Will  has  run 
away.  He  will  play  the  fiddle  in  the  orchestra  rather  than 
become  an  Alderman  and  Lord  Mayor/  ,  , 


How  I  Got  Into  the  King's  Bench        27 

'I  want  to  live  as  you  live,  Tom.' 

'If  you  can,  boy,  you  shall/  Now  it  was  the  humour  of 
Tom  to  speak  of  his  own  cottage  and  his  manner  of  life  as 
if  both  were  stately  and  sumptuous.  'Very  few/  he  added 
proudly,  'can  live  as  we  live/  He  looked  proudly  round. 
The  room  was  about  ten  feet  square:  low,  painted  drab, 
without  ornament,  without  curtains :  there  were  a  few 
shelves :  a  cupboard :  a  small  table :  two  brass  candlesticks, 
a  brass  pair  of  snuffers:  four  rush-bottomed  chairs,  and 
nothing  more. 

Tom  was  dressed  in  an  old  brown  coat  with  patches  on 
the  elbows,  the  wrists  frayed  and  the  buttons  gone.  To 
be  sure  he  had  a  finer  coat  for  the  orchestra.  His  stockings 
were  of  worsted,  darned  in  many  places :  a  woollen  wrapper 
was  round  his  neck.  Everything  proclaimed  poverty :  of 
course  people  who  are  not  poor  do  not  live  in  the  Rules. 
'Few/  he  repeated,  'are  privileged  to  live  as  I  live/  I  have 
never  known  whether  this  was  a  craze  or  his  humour  to 
pretend  that  he  fared  sumptuously :  was  lodged  like  a  prince : 
and  received  the  wages  of  an  ambassador.  Perhaps  it 
was  mere  habit ;  a  way  of  presenting  his  own  life  to  himself 
by  exaggeration  and  pretence  which  he  had  somehow 
grown  to  believe. 

'You  ask,  Will,  a  thing  difficult  of  achievement/ 

'But  gradually — little  by  little.  One  would  never  expect 
it  all  at  once/ 

'Ay,  there  we  talk  sense.  But  first,  why  hath  Sir  Peter 
behaved  with  this  (apparent)  harshness?  I  would  not 
judge  him  hastily.  Therefore  I  say,  apparent/ 

'Because  he  found  out  at  last — my  cousin  Matthew  told 
him — that  I  came  here  to  play  the  fiddle.  So  he  gave  me 
the  choice — either  to  give  up  the  counting-house  or  to 
give  up  the  music.  And  I  gave  up  the  counting-house, 
Tom.  I  don't  care  what  happens  so  that  I  get  out  of  the 
counting-house/ 

'Good — lad — good/ 

'And  I  drubbed  my  cousin — I  paid  him  with  his  own 
stick.  And  here  I  am/ 

He  took  my  hand,  his  honest  face  beaming  with  satis- 
faction. At  that  moment,  his  sister  Alice  came  back  from 
making  some  purchases  in  the  Borough  High  Street.  'Alice 
my  dear/  he  said,  'Will  has  been  turned  out  of  house  and 


28  The  Orange  Girl 

home  by  his  father — sent  out  into  the  streets  without  a 
penny.' 

Alice  burst  into  tears. 

When  I  think  of  Alice  at  that  moment,  my  heart  swells, 
my  eyes  grow  humid.  She  was  then  fifteen,  an  age  when 
the  child  and  the  woman  meet,  and  one  knows  not  whether 
to  expect  the  one  or  the  other.  When  Alice  burst  into  tears 
it  was  the  child  who  wept :  she  had  always  loved  me  with  a 
childish  unconsciousness :  she  was  only  beginning  to  under- 
stand that  I  was  not  her  brother. 

You  know  how  sweet  a  flower  will  sometimes  spring  up 
in  the  most  unlovely  spot.  Well:  in  this  place,  close  to 
the  Dog  and  Duck,  with  prodigals  and  rakes  and  painted 
Jezebels  always  before  her  eyes,  this  child  grew  up  sweet 
and  tender  and  white  as  the  snow.  I  have  never  known 
any  girl  upon  whom  the  continual  sight — not  to  be  con- 
cealed— of  gross  vice  produced  so  little  effect:  it  was  as  if 
the  eyes  of  her  soul  involuntarily  closed  to  the  meaning  of 
such  things.  Such  sweetness,  such  purity,  was  stamped 
upon  her  face  then  as  afterwards.  Never,  surely,  was  there 
a  face  that  showed  so  plain  and  clear  to  read  that  the 
thoughts  behind  it  were  not  earthly  or  common. 

'It  is  the  soul  of  music  that  possesses  her,'  said  her  brother 
once.  'She  has  imbibed  that  soul  day  by  day.  Will,  'tis  a 
saintly  child.  Sometimes  I  fear  that  she  may  be  carried 
away  like  Elijah/ 

Well,  when  I  saw  those  tears,  I  was  seized  with  a  kind 
of  joyful  compassion  and,  so  to  speak,  happy  shame,  to 
think  that  those  tears  were  for  me.  I  drew  her  gently 
and  kissed  her. 

'Why,  nothing  better  could  have  happened  to  him.  Thou 
little  simpleton,'  said  her  brother.  Warming  up  with  his 
subject,  he  became  eloquent.  'He  shall  do  much  better — 
far  better — than  if  he  had  stayed  in  the  counting-house.  He 
shall  not  be  weighed  down  with  a  load  of  riches:  he  shall 
have  to  work  in  order  to  live — believe  me,  Will,  Art  must  be 
forced  by  necessity :  where  there  is  no  necessity  there  is  no 
Art:  when  riches  creep  in,  Art  becomes  a  toy.  Because  he 
must  work,  therefore  he  will  be  stimulated  to  do  great 
things.  He  shall  never  set  his  mind  upon  growing  rich:  he 
shall  remain  poor/ 

'Not  too  poor/  said  his  wife  gently.  Indeed  her  poor 
shabby  dress  showed  what  she  meant. 


How  I  Got  Into  the  King's  Bench        29 

'Peace,  woman.  He  shall  be  poor,  I  say.  Happy  lad! 
He  shall  be  poor.  He  shall  never  have  money  in  a  stocking, 
and  he  shall  never  want  any.  He  shall  live  like  the  spar- 
rows, from  day  to  day,  fed  by  the  bounty  of  the  Lord.' 

'Who  loveth  the  Dog  and  Duck/  said  his  wife. 

The  husband  frowned.  'To  sum  up,  Will,  thy  lot  shall 
be  the  happiest  that  the  world  can  give.  What  ?'  He  lifted 
his  hand  and  his  eyes  grew  brighter.  'For  the  musician  the 
curse  of  labour  is  remitted:  for  him  there  is  no  longing 
after  riches:  for  him  there  is  no  flattery  of  great  men:  for 
him  there  is  no  meanness ;  for  him  there  are  no  base  arts : 
for  him  there  is  no  wriggling:  for  him  there  are  no  back 
stairs :  for  him  there  is  no  patron. — In  a  word,  Will,  .the 
musician  is  the  only  free  man  in  the  world/ 

'In  the  Rules,  you  mean,  my  dear/  This  was  his  wife's 
correction. 

'Will/  said  Alice,  'shall  you  really  become  like  Tom  ?' 

'Truly,  Alice,  if  I  can/  * 

*     'Wife/  said  Tom.     'Will   shall   stay  with  us.     He  can 
sleep  in  the  garret.     We  must  find  a  mattress  somewhere/ 

'Nay,  but  I  must  pay  my  footing.  See,  Tom.  I  have 
five  guineas/  I  showed  this  mine  of  wealth.  He  took  one 
and  gave  it  to  his  wife. 

'Aha!'  he  laughed.  'Buy  him  a  mattress  and  a  blanket, 
wife.  And  this  evening  we  will  have  a  bowl  of  punch. 
Will,  we  shall  fare  like  Kings  and  like  the  Great  ones  of 
the  Earth/ 


CHAPTER  III 

A   WAY   TO   LIVE 

I  THINK  that  Tom  Shirley  was  the  most  good-natured  man 
in  the  whole  world:  the  most  ready  to  do  anything  he 
could  for  anybody :  always  cheerful :  always  happy :  partly, 
I  suppose,  because  he  looked  at  everything  through  spec- 
tacles of  imagination.  He  joined,  however,  to  his  passion 
for  music  another  which  belonged  to  a  lower  world :  namely, 
for  punch.  Yet  he  was  not  an  intemperate  man :  he  showed 
neither  purple  cheeks,  nor  a  double  chin,  nor  a  swollen 
neck,  nor  a  rubicund  nose — all  of  which  were  common  sights 
on  Change  and  in  the  streets  of  London.  The  reason  why 


30  The  Orange  Girl 

he  displayed  no  signs  of  drink  was  that  he  could  seldom 
gratify  his  passion  for  punch  by  reason  of  his  poverty,  and 
that  in  eating,  which,  I  believe,  also  contributes  its  share 
to  the  puffing  out  of  the  neck  and  the  painting  of  the  nose, 
such  as  may  be  seen  on  Change,  he  was  always  as  moderate, 
although  he  thought  every  meal  a  feast,  as  became  his 
slender  means. 

I  do  not  know  how  he  got  into  the  King's  Bench,  but  the 
thing  is  so  easy  that  one  marvels  that  so  many  are  able  to 
keep  out.  They  put  him  in  and  kept  him  there  for  a  time, 
when  he  was  enabled  to  obtain  the  privilege  of  the  Rules. 
He  was,  as  he  boasted,  always  rich,  because  he  thought  he 
was  rich.  His  wife  took  from  him,  every  week,  the  whole 
of  his  wages,  otherwise  he  would  have  given  them  away. 

At  one  o'clock  Alice  laid  the  cloth  and  we  had  dinner. 
Tom  lifted  the  knife  and  fork  and  held  it  over  the  cold  boiled 
beef  as  if  fearing  to  mar  that  delicate  dish  by  a  false  or 
clumsy  cut.  'Is  there  anything,'  he  said,  'more  delicious 
to  the  palate  than  cold  boiled  beef  ?  It  must  be  cut  delicately 
and  with  judgment — with  judgment,  Will.'  He  proceeded 
to  exercise  judgment.  There  was  a  cabbage  on  the  table. 
'This  delicacy,'  he  said,  'is  actually  grown  for  us — for  us — 
in  the  gnrdens  of  Lambeth  Marsh.  Remark  the  crispness 
of  it:  there  is  a  solid  heart  for  you:  there  is  colour:  there 
is  flavour.'  All  this  was,  I  remember,  the  grossest  flattery. 
'Oat  cake,'  he  said,  breaking  a  piece.  'Some,  I  believe, 
prefer  wheaten  bread.  They  do  wrong.  Viands  must  not 
be  judged  by  their  cost  but  by  their  fitness  to  others  on  the 
table,  and  by  the  season.  Remember,  Will,  that  with  cold 
boiled  beef,  oat  cake  is  your  only  eating.'  He  poured  out 
some  beer  into  a  glass  and  held  it  up  to  the  light.  'Watch 
the  sparkles:  hear  the  humming:  strong  October  this' — it 
was  the  most  common  small  beer — 'have  a  care,  Will,  have 
a  care.'  And  so  on,  turning  the  simple  meal  into  a  ban- 
quet. 

His  wife  and  sister  received  these  extravagances  without 
a  smile.  They  were  used  to  them.  The  latter,  at  least, 
believed  that  they  were  the  simple  truth.  The  poor  girl 
was  innocently  proud  of  her  humble  home,  this  cottage  on 
St.  George's  Fields,  within  the  Rules. 

After  dinner,  we  talked.  As  the  subject  was  Music  Tom 
was  somewhat  carried  away;  yet  there  was  method  in  his 
madness. 


How  I  Got  Into  the  King's  Bench        31 

'I  said,  lad,  that  there  would  be  no  Art  if  there  were 
no  necessity.  'Tis  Poverty  alone  makes  men  become  musi- 
cians and  painters  and  poets.  Where  can  you  find  a  rich 
man  who  was  ever  a  great  artist?  I  am  no  scholar,  but  I 
have  asked  scholars  this  question,  and  they  agree  with  me 
that  riches  destroy  Art.  Hardly  may  Dives  become  even 
a  Connoisseur.  He  may  become  a  general  or  a  statesman: 
we  do  not  take  all  from  him:  we  leave  him  something — 
but  not  the  best — that  we  keep  for  ourselves — we  keep  Art 
for  ourselves.  As  for  a  rich  merchant  becoming  a  musician 
or  a  painter — it  is  impossible:  one  laughs  at  the  very 
thought.' 

'Well,  that  danger  is  gone,  Tom,  so  far  as  I  am  con- 
cerned/ 

'Ay.  The  reason  I  take  it,  is  that  Art  demands  the  whole 
man — not  a  bit  of  him — the  whole  man — all  his  soul,  all  his 
mind,  all  his  thoughts,  all  his  strength.  You  must  give  all 
that  to  music,  Will.' 

'I  ask  nothing  better/ 

'Another  reason  is  that  Art  raises  a  man's  thoughts  to 
a  higher  level  than  is  wanted  for  Trade.  It  is  impossible 
for  a  man's  mind  to  soar  or  to  sink  according  as  he  thinks 
of  art  or  trade.  You  will  remember,  Will,  for  your  com- 
fort, that  your  mind  is  raised  above  the  City/ 

'I  will  remember/ 

'Well,  then,  let  us  think  about  what  is  best  to  be  done/ 

He  pondered  a  little.     Then  he  smiled. 

Tut  pride  in  pocket,  Will.     Now  what  would  you  like  ?' 

'To  write  great  music/ 

'A  worthy  ambition.  It  has  been  my  own.  It  is  not  for 
me  to  say  whether  my  songs,  which  are  nightly  sung  at  the 
Dog  and  Duck,  are  great  music  or  not.  Posterity  may 
judge.  Lad,  it  is  one  thing  to  love  music — and  another 
thing  to  compose  it.  The  latter  is  given  to  few :  the  former 
to  many.  It  may  be  that  it  is  thy  gift.  But  I  know  not. 
Meantime,  we  must  live/ 

'I  will  do  anything/ 

'Again — put  pride  in  pocket.  Now  there  is  a  river-side 
tavern  at  Bermondsey.  It  is  a  place  for  sailors  and  their 
Dolls.  A  rough  and  coarse  place  it  is,  at  best.  They  want 
a  fiddler  from  six  o'clock  till  ten  every  night,  and  later  on 
Saturdays/ 


32  The  Orange  Girl 

I  heard  with  a  shiver.  To  play  in  a  sailors'  tavern!  It 
was  my  father's  prophecy. 

'Everybody  must  begin,  Will.  What?  A  sailors'  tavern 
is  no  place  for  the  son  of  a  City  merchant,  is  it  ?  But  that  is 
gone.  Thou  art  now  nobody's  son — a  child  of  the  gutter — 
the  world  is  thine  oyster — free  of  all  ties — with  neither 
brother  nor  cousin  to  say  thee  nay.  Lucky  dog!  What? 
We  must  make  a  beginning — I  say — in  the  gutter.' 

His  eyes  twinkled  and  smiled,  and  I  perceived  without 
being  told  that  he  meant  to  try  my  courage.  So,  with  a 
rueful  countenance  and  a  foolish  sense  of  shame,  I  consented 
to  sit  in  the  corner  of  a  sanded  room  in  a  common  river-side 
tavern  and  to  make  music  for  common  sailors  and  their 
sweethearts. 

'Why,'  said  Tom,  'that  is  well.  And  now,  my  lad,  remem- 
ber. There  are  no  better  judges  of  a  riddle  than  sailors. 
They  love  their  music  as  they  love  their  lobscouse,  hot  and 
strong  and  plenty.  Give  it  elbow,  Will.  They  are  not  for 
fine  fingering  or  for  cunning  strokes  and  effects — they  like 
the  tune  to  come  out  full  and  sweet.  They  will  be  thy 
masters.  As  for  dancing,  they  like  the  time  to  be  marked  as 
well  as  the  tune.  Find  out  how  they  like  to  take  it.  There 
is  one  time  for  a  hornpipe  and  another  for  a  jig.  As  for 
pay ' 

I  will  not  complete  the  sentence.  For  such  as  myself 
there  must  be  a  Day  of  Small  Things.  But  one  need  not 
confess  how  very  small  these  things  have  been. 

Thus  it  was  that  I  found  an  Asylum — a  City  of  Refuge — 
in  the  Rules  of  the  King's  Bench,  when  I  was  turned  out  by 
my  own  people.  And  in  this  way  I  became  that  despised 
and  contemptible  object,  a  Common  Fiddler.  I  played,  not 
without  glory,  every  night,  to  a  company  as  low  as  could  be 
found.  At  least,  I  thought  so  at  the  time.  Later  on,  it  is 
true,  I  found  a  lower  company  still.  And  I  dare  say  there 
are  assemblies  of  men  and  women  even  lower.  My  fellows, 
at  least,  were  honest,  and  their  companions  were,  at  least, 
what  the  men  had  made  them. 

We  settled  the  business  that  very  afternoon,  walking  over 
to  Bermondsey.  The  landlord  said  I  was  very  young,  but  if 
I  could  fiddle  he  did  not  mind  that,  only  it  must  be  remem- 
bered in  the  pay.  So  I  was  engaged  to  begin  the  next 
day.  In  the  evening  I  went  with  Tom  to  the  Dog  and  Duck 
where  he  played  first  fiddle  in  the  Orchestra,  and  sat  in  the 


How  I  Got  Into  the  King's  Bench        33 

musicians'  gallery.  About  this  place  more  anon.  At  twelve 
o'clock  the  music  ceased  and  I  walked  home  with  Tom. 
I  remember,  it  was  then  a  fine  clear  night  in  September :  the 
wind  blew  chill  across  the  marshes :  it  had  come  up  with  the 
flow  of  the  river:  the  moon  was  riding  high:  a  strange 
elation  possessed  my  soul :  for  my  independence  was  begin- 
ning :  four  guineas  in  my  pocket :  and  a  place  with  so  many 
shillings  a  week  to  live  upon:  nothing  to  do  but  to  work  at 
music:  and  to  live  with  the  best-hearted  man  in  the  whole 
world. 

We  got  home.  Alice  had  gone  to  bed.  Tom's  wife  was 
sitting  up  for  us,  the  bowl  of  punch  was  ready  for  us,  not 
too  big  a  bowl,  because  Tom's  weakness  where  punch  was 
concerned  was  well  known.  He  drank  my  success  in  one 
glass :  my  future  operas  and  oratorios  in  the  second :  my 
joyful  independence  in  the  third:  and  my  happy  release  in 
the  fourth.  That  finished  the  bowl  and  we  went  to  bed. 


CHAPTER  IV 

LOVE  AND  MUSIC 

You  need  not  be  told  how  I  lived  for  the  next  three  or 
four  years.  I  took  what  came.  Pride  remained  in  pocket.  I 
fiddled  a  wedding-party  to  church  and  home  again.  I  fid- 
dled the  Company  of  Fellowship  Porters  through  the  streets 
when  they  held  their  yearly  feast.  I  fiddled  for  sailors ;  I 
fiddled  at  beanfeasts;  I  fiddled  for  Free  Masons;  I  fiddled 
in  taverns;  I  fiddled  here  and  there  and  everywhere,  quite 
unconcerned,  even  though  I  was  playing  in  the  gallery  of  a 
City  company's  hall,  and  actually  saw  my  cousin  sitting  in 
state  among  the  guests  at  the  feast  below,  and  knew  that  he 
saw  me  and  rejoiced  at  the  sight,  in  his  ignorance  of  the 
consolations  of  music. 

Nothing  in  those  days  came  amiss  to  me.  One  who 
makes  music  for  his  livelihood  has  no  cause  to  be  ashamed 
of  playing  for  anyone.  It  does  not  seem  an  occupation 
such  as  one  would  choose,  to  spend  the  evening  in  a  chair, 
stuck  in  a  corner  out  of  the  way,  in  a  stinking  room,  for 


34  The  Orange  Girl 

rough  fellows  to  dance  hornpipes :  the  work  does  not  lift 
up  the  soul  to  the  level  which  Tom  Shirley  claimed  for  the 
musician.  But  this  was  only  the  pot-boiling  work.  I  had 
the  mornings  to  myself,  when  I  could  practise  and  attempt 
composition.  Besides,  at  eighteen,  the  present,  if  one  be- 
longs to  a  calling  which  has  a  career,  is  of  very  little  import- 
ance: the  real  life  lies  before:  the  boy  lives  for  the  future. 
I  was  going,  in  those  days,  to  be  a  great  composer  like 
Handel.  I  was  going  to  write  oratorios  such  as  his:  majes- 
tic, where  majesty  was  wanted:  tender,  where  love  and 
pity  must  be  depicted :  devout,  where  piety  was  called  for.  I 
would  write,  besides,  in  my  ambition,  such  things  as  were 
written  by  Purcell  and  Arne :  anthems  for  the  church :  songs 
and  madrigals  and  rounds  and  catches  such  as  those  with 
which  my  patron  Tom  Shirley  delighted  his  world. 

The  profession  of  music  is  one  which  can  only  be  followed 
by  those  who  have  the  gift  of  music.  That  is  the  definition 
of  any  Art:  it  can  only  be  followed  by  those  who  have  the 
gift  of  that  Art.  In  any  other  calling  a  man  may  serve 
after  a  fashion,  who  hath  not  been  called  thereto.  Many 
men,  for  example,  are  divines  who  have  neither  learning  nor 
eloquence  nor — the  Lord  help  them ! — religion.  Many  law- 
yers have  no  love  for  the  law.  Many  merchants  hate  the 
counting-house.  But  in  music  no  one  can  serve  at  all  unless 
he  is  a  musician  born.  He  who,  without  the  gift,  would  try 
to  enter  the  profession  breaks  down  at  the  outset,  seeing 
that  he  cannot  even  learn  to  play  an  instrument  with  feeling, 
ease,  or  judgment.  Nay,  there  are  distinct  ranks  of  music, 
to  each  of  which  one  is  raised  by  Nature,  as  much  as  by 
study.  Thus,  you  have  at  the  bottom,  the  rank  and  file, 
namely,  those  who  can  play  a  single  instrument :  next,  those 
who  can  compose  and  make  simple  music  for  songs,  in 
which  all  that  is  wanted  is  a  tuneful  and  spirited  air  with  an 
ordinary  accompaniment:  next  those  who  understand  har- 
mony and  can  make  music  of  a  higher  character,  such  as 
anthems,  part-songs,  and  so  forth.  Lastly,  you  have  the 
composer  in  whose  brains  lies  the  knowledge  of  every 
instrument  in  the  orchestra.  He  is  the  King  of  musicians : 
from  him  come  the  noble  oratorios  which  delight  our  age 
and  lift  our  souls  to  Heaven:  from  him  come  the  masses 
which  are  sung — I  have  the  scores  of  several — in  Cathedrals 
of  Roman  Catholic  countries.  It  is  not  for  an  Englishman 
to  admire  aught  that  belongs  to  Rome:  but  we  must  at 


How  I  Got  Into  the  King's  Bench        35 

least  concede  to  the  Roman  Catholic  the  possession  of  noble 
music. 

This,  then,  was  my  ambition.  For  four  years  I  con- 
tinued to  live  with  my  friend  Tom  Shirley.  I  held  no  com- 
munication with  my  father  or  any  of  my  own  people.  None 
of  them  made  any  attempt  at  reconciliation.  I  believe  they 
were  honestly  ashamed  of  me.  The  new  friends  I  made 
were  good  and  faithful :  musical  people  have  ever  kindly 
hearts,  and  are  loyal  to  each  other:  they  do  not  backbite: 
there  is  no  room  for  envy  where  one  man  plays  the  fiddle  and 
another  the  cornet :  we  are  all  a  company  of  brothers. 

The  time  came  when  it  was  no  longer  necessary  for  me 
to  play  at  taverns  for  the  sailors:  when  I  was  no  longer 
compelled  to  attend  weddings.  I  obtained,  one  after  the 
other,  two  posts,  neither  of  which  was  a  very  great  thing, 
but  both  together  made  it  possible  for  me  to  live  in  some 
comfort.  The  first  was  that  of  organist  at  St.  George's  in 
the  Borough.  I  had  to  attend  the  service  and  to  play  the 
organ  twice  on  Sunday:  the  week  day  services  and  the 
Gift  Lectures  were  conducted  without  any  singing.  The 
Church  contains,  I  believe,  the  most  fashionable  congrega- 
tion of  South  London,  and  therefore  the  most  critical.  I 
do  not  think,  however,  that,  while  I  sat  in  the  organ-loft, 
they  had  any  reason  to  complain  either  of  music  or  of 
choir.  There  sat  with  me  in  the  organ-loft,  Alice,  who 
possessed  a  sweet,  clear,  and  strong  voice :  her  brother  Tom, 
who  brought  into  the  choir  an  excellent  tenor :  Mr.  Ramage, 
one  of  my  father's  clerks,  who  lodged  behind  the  Marshal- 
sea,  gave  us  a  bass  of  indifferent  quality,  though  he  was 
now  past  fifty.  Half  a  dozen  boys  and  girls  from  the 
Charity  School,  of  no  great  account  for  voices,  made  up  our 
choir.  I  believe  it  was  better  than  the  average,  and  I  think 
that  people  came  on  Sunday  morning  on  purpose  to  hear 
the  organ  and  the  singing. 

Mr. "Ramage,  or  Ramage,  as  he  was  called  in  the  Count- 
ing-house, where  no  title  is  allowed  to  any  below  the  rank 
of  partner  or  partner's  son,  kept  me  acquainted  with  events 
in  College  Street  and  on  the  wharf.  My  father,  it  was  un- 
derstood, never  mentioned  my  name:  the  business  of  the 
Firm  was  never  more  flourishing:  Mr.  Matthew  was  con- 
stantly called  in  for  consultations.  'And  oh !  Master  Will,' 
my  old  friend  always  concluded,  'be  reconciled.  What  is  it 
~-to  give  up  playing  the  organ  at  Church?  Why — it  is 


36  The  Orange  Girl 

nothing.  Someone  else  will  play  while  you  sit  in  state  in 
your  red  velvet  pew  below.  Give  way  to  your  father.  He 
is  a  hard  man,  but  he  is  just.' 

It  also  appeared  from  Mr.  Ramage's  information  that  it 
was  perfectly  well  known  by  the  clerks  and  by  Mr.  Matthew, 
who  doubtless  told  my  father,  the  ways  by  which  I  had  been 
making  a  living:  I  had  been  seen  by  one  marching  ahead  of 
a  sailor's  wedding-party:  by  another  riddling  in  the  Ber- 
mondsey  Tavern:  by  a  third  in  the  Gallery  of  a  City  Com- 
pany Hall.  The  Counting-house  down  to  the  messengers 
was  humiliated :  there  was  but  one  feeling  among  the  clerks : 
I  had  brought  disgrace  upon  the  House. 

'They  are  sorry,  Master  Will,  for  your  father's  sake.  It 
is  hard  for  him :  so  proud  a  man — with  so  much  to  be  proud 
of — a  quarter  of  a  million,  some  say.  Think  how  hard 
it  is  for  him/ 

'It  is  harder  for  me  Ramage,'  I  replied,  'to  be  driven  to 
fiddle  for  sailors,  when  all  I  ask  is  to  be  allowed  to  follow 
music  in  peace.  However,  tell  the  clerks  that  I  am  sorry  to 
have  disgraced  them.' 

Disgraced  the  clerks!  What  did  I  say?  Why,  theirs  is 
the  lowest  kind  of  work  that  the  world  can  find  for  men. 
They  were  disgraced  because  their  Master's  son  played  the 
fiddle  for  a  living.  But  I  could  not  afford  to  consider  their 
opinions. 

Ramage  knew  nothing  about  my  other  place,  or  his 
entreaties  would  have  been  more  fervent.  I  had  but  one 
answer,  however.  I  could  not  give  up  the  only  work  that 
I  cared  for,  even  to  be  reconciled  to  my  father.  Why,  I  was 
born  for  music.  Shall  a  man  fly  in  the  face  of  Providence, 
and  scorn  the  gifts  with  which  he  is  endowed  ? 

My  other  place  was  none  other  than  second  fiddle,  Tom 
Shirley  being  the  first  fiddle,  of  the  Dog  and  Duck. 

I  have  mentioned  the  Pleasure  Gardens  south  of  the  River. 
There  are,  as  Londoners  know  very  well,  a  great  many  such 
gardens,  all  alike  in  most  respects.  That  is  to  say,  there 
is  in  every  one  of  them  an  avenue  or  walk,  lined  by  trees 
which  at  night  are  festooned  by  thousands  of  lights  in 
coloured  glass  lamps  hanging  from  tree  to  tree.  There  is 
also  in  most  a  piece  of  water  with  swans  or  ducks  upon  it, 
and  all  round  it  arbours  where  the  company  take  tea  or 
punch  or  wine.  There  is  a  tavern  where  drink  may  be  had : 
suppers  are  served  in  the  evening :  there  is  a  floor  for  danc- 


How  I  Got  Into  the  King's  Bench        37 

ing  in  the  open  air  with  a  place  for  the  band;  and  there  is 
a  Long  Room  with  an  organ  at  one  end  where  the  company 
promenade  and  listen,  and  where  on  hot  nights  the  band  and 
the  singers  perform.  In  many  gardens  there  is  also  a  bowl- 
ing-green :  there  is  sometimes  a  swimming  bath,  and  in  most 
there  is  a  chalybeate  spring  the  water  of  which  is  warranted 
to  cure  anything,  but  especially  rheumatism,  gout,  and  the 
King's  evil. 

Every  one  of  these  gardens  employs  an  orchestra,  and 
engages  the  services  of  singers.  The  number  of  musicians 
employed  is  therefore  considerable.  There  are  certainly  in 
the  south  of  London  alone  more  than  a  dozen  Gardens  large 
enough  to  have  a  band.  Beside  the  Dog  and  Duck,  there 
are  the  Temple  of  Flora:  the  Lambeth  Wells:  the  Cumber- 
land Gardens :  Vauxhall  Gardens :  Bermondsey  Spa :  St. 
Helena  Gardens :  Finch's  Grotto :  Cupid's  Gardens :  Restora- 
tion Spring  Gardens — is  not  that  twelve?  And  there  are 
more.  So  that  it  is  not  difficult  for  a  young  man  who  can 
play  any  instrument  tolerably  to  get  a  place  in  the  orchestra 
of  some  Garden. 

One  would  not  choose  such  a  position  if  Fortune  gave  one 
a  choice.  At  the  Dog  and  Duck  there  are  visitors  to  whose 
pleasure  we  should  be  ashamed  of  ministering :  people  whose 
proper  place  is  the  House  of  Correction  or  Bridewell:  they 
are  allowed  to  attend  these  gardens  with  friends  who  should 
also  be  denied  entrance:  they  make  the  company  noisy  and 
disorderly.  We  gave  them  music  that  was  a  great  deal  bet- 
ter than  they  deserved :  it  was  thrown  away  upon  the  ma- 
jority :  we  gave  them  songs  that  were  innocent  and  tender — 
Tom  Shirley  wrote  and  composed  them  himself :  we  also  had 
to  give  them  other  songs  more  suited  to  their  gross  and 
grovelling  tastes. 

It  was  part  of  Tom's  humour  to  speak  of  the  audience  at 
the  Dog  and  Duck  as  the  most  polite,  fashionable,  and  aristo- 
cratic assembly  in  the  world.  He  declared  that  their  taste 
in  music  was  excellent :  their  attention  that  of  a  connoisseur : 
and  their  appreciation  of  his  own  songs  all  that  he  could 
desire.  I  asked  him  once  how  he  reconciled  these  things 
with  their  delight  in  the  comic  songs  which  were  also  pro- 
vided for  them.  'The  aristocracy/  he  said,  'must  from  time 
to  time,  unbend:  they  must  from  time  to  time,  laugh:  they 
laugh  and  they  unbend  when  we  give  them  a  song  to  which 
in  their  more  polite  moments  they  would  refuse  to  listen,' 


38  The  Orange  Girl 

I  knew  very  well  that  the  company  was  chiefly  composed  of 
deboshed  profligates :  prentices  who  daily  robbed  their  mas- 
ters in  order  to  come  to  the  gardens :  young  gentlemen  from 
the  country;  prodigal  sons  from  the  Temple  and  Lincoln's 
Inn;  and  tradesmen  who  were  dissipating  their  capital.  If 
good  music  was  played  they  talked  and  laughed :  at  the  sing- 
ing of  good  songs  they  walked  about  or  left  the  open  plat- 
form for  the  dark  lanes  of  the  garden.  'You  are  lucky, 
Will/  said  Tom.  To  play  for  such  an  audience  brings  good 
luck,  with  name  and  fame  and  riches.' 

It  brought  me  fifteen  shillings  a  week.  And  as  for  name 
and  fame  I  never  heard  of  either. 

I  did  not  propose  to  write  my  own  history,  but  that  of 
a  woman  to  whom  you  have  already  seen  me  conversing. 
Yet  my  own  history  must  be  understood  before  hers  can  be 
related.  You  have  been  told  how  for  my  obstinate  adher- 
ence to  music  I  was  turned  cut  of  my  father's  house:  how 
I  found  a  refuge :  how  I  earned  my  livelihood  by  playing 
the  fiddle.  Now,  before  I  come  to  the  events  which  con- 
nected my  fortunes  with  those  of  the  lady  whom  I  call  my 
mistress — and  that  with  my  wife's  consent — I  must  tell  one 
or  two  events  which  befell  me.  The  first  of  them  was  my 
courtship  and  .my  marriage.  In  the  courtship  there  was 
no  obstacle:  the  course  of  true  love  ran  smoothly:  in  my 
marriage  there  were  no  regrets :  no  discords :  always  a  full 
deep  current  of  affection  on  both  sides.  A  simple,  plain 
story,  in  which  nothing  happened,  so  far :  would  to  Heaven 
that  nothing  had  happened,  afterwards. 

When  a  young  man  and  girl  live  under  the  same  roof: 
when  they  share  the  same  interests:  when  they  have  the 
same  affections — Alice  herself  could  not  love  her  brother 
more  than  I  did :  when  the  home  is  happy  in  spite  of  poverty 
and  its  restrictions:  when  the  hearts  of  the  two  go  out  to 
each  other  spontaneously,  then  the  time  must  come  when 
they  will  resolve  upon  becoming  brother  and  sister  or  de- 
clared and  open  lovers. 

When  I  think  of  this  time,  this  truly  happy  time,  I  some- 
times feel  as  if  we  were  too  hurried  over  it.  I  sat  beside 
Alice  every  morning  at  breakfast  and  at  dinner :  I  played  to 
her :  I  composed  songs  for  her :  I  even  wrote  verses  for  the 
music — I  have  some  of  them  still,  and  really,  though  I  do 
not  pretend  to  be  a  poet,  there  are  things  in  them  which 
I  admire.  Poets  always  speak  of  the  warblers  in  the  grove : 


How  I  Got  Into  the  King's  Bench        39- 

so  did  I.  Love,  which  rhymes  to  grove,  always  burns  and 
flames — did  so  in  my  verses.  As  to  the  rhymes,  I  abolished 
the  first  and  third,  which  was  a  great  relief.  Without  the 
necessity  of  rhyming  one  could  easily  become  a  poet. 

I  say  that  the  situation  being  so  pleasant  and  so  happy, 
I  might  have  prolonged  it:  but  there  comes  a  time  when  a 
man  must  take  the  last  step.  The  uncertainty  is  sweet. 
Can  she  love  me?  Will  she  perhaps  say  nay?  Yet  the 
pleasing  pain,  the  charming  smart,  the  raptured  flames — I 
quote  from  my  own  verses  which  were  really  like  many  that 
I  have  seen  used  in  songs — become  in  time  too  much:  one 
must  gerforce  go  on  to  secure  the  happiness  beyond. 

In  the  morning,  when  the  weather  was  fine,  we  would 
walk  abroad  among  the  fields  and  gardens  that  lie  stretched 
out  behind  the  river  bank :  some  of  them  are  pretty  gardens, 
each  with  its  hedge  and  bushes  filled  with  flowers  in  the 
summer:  garden  houses  stand  about  here  and  there:  wind- 
mills vary  the  landskip :  the  lanes  are  shaded  by  trees :  at  the 
end  of  one  is  a  great  stone  barn,  formerly  part  of  King 
Richard's  Palace,  of  which  not  another  stone  is  left.  Beside 
the  river  are  Lambeth  Palace  and  Lambeth  Church  with  a 
few  fishermen's  cottages.  Over  this  rural  place  we  strayed 
at  our  will,  now  among  the  lanes ;  picking  wild  flowers ;  re- 
calling scraps  of  songs ;  listening  to  the  skylark,  while  the 
fresh  breeze  coming  up  the  river  with  the  tide  fanned 
Alice's  cheek  and  heightened  the  soft  colour  which  was  one 
of  her  charms.  Sometimes  we  left  the  fields  and  walked 
along  the  high  Embankment  watching  the  laden  barges 
slowly  going  up  or  down  and  the  sailing  tilt-boats  bound  for 
Richmond:  or  the  fishermen  in  mid-stream  with  their  nets: 
or  the  wherries  plying  with  their  fares  and  the  swans: 
admiring,  in  a  word,  the  life  and  animation  of  the  river  at 
Westminster  and  above  it.  Chiefly,  however,  Alice  loved 
the  fields,  where  in  the  morning  we  were  always  alone  save 
for  a  gardener  here  and  there  at  work.  Since  the  life  that 
she  saw  around  her  was  such  as  she  saw — made  up  of  debt- 
ors' prisons,  noisy  duck-hunters,  prize-fighters  and  drunken 
profligates,  what  wonder  if  she  loved  to  linger  where  she 
was  apart  from  the  vileness  of  men  and  women  ?  To  medi- 
tate :  to  muse :  to  sing  all  alone,  for  my  companionship 
counted  nothing:  was  her  greatest  joy.  So  it  has  continued: 
even  now  she  loves  to  wander  alone  beneath  the  trees — they 
are  other  trees  under  another  sky — and  lift  up  her  voice  to 


40  The  Orange  Girl 

Heaven,  which  answers  by  giving  her  thoughts,  always  new, 
and  always  holy. 

It  was  in  the  middle  of  May,  the  poet's  month,  when  we 
were  thus  roaming  in  the  fields.  Alice  carried  a  handful  of 
hawthorn.  She  sang  as  she  went.  Dear  Heart!  how  she 
sang !  Yet  I  know  not  what.  It  was  Prayer :  it  was  Praise : 
it  was  Adoration:  it  was  Worship:  I  know  not  what  she 
sang.  The  larks  were  dumb  because  they  could  not  sing  with 
her. 

It  was  the  time  of  which  I  have  spoken — the  time  of 
uncertainty.  Never  had  Alice  looked  so  heavenly  sweet: 
she  carried  her  hat  by  the  strings:  her  hair  fell  about  her 
shoulders — fair,  soft  hair,  like  silk,  with  a  touch  of  gold  in 
it:  her  eyes  gazed  upwards  when  the  light  clouds  flew 
across  the  blue,  as  if  they  were  things  of  this  world  trying 
to  turn  her  eyes  and  thoughts  away  from  the  things  of 
Heaven.  I  could  endure  the  doubt  no  longer.  I  laid  my 
arm  about  her  waist:  the  song  was  troubled:  her  eyes 
dropped.  'Oh !'  she  said.  'What  wilt  thou  ?'  I  drew  her 
closer.  The  song  broke  off.  I  kissed  her  head,  her  brow, 
her  lips.  We  said  nothing.  She  sang  no  more.  But  the 
larks  began  their  hymns  of  joy :  the  clouds  passed :  the  sun 
came  out  in  splendour:  the  hedges  seemed  all  to  burst  to- 
gether into  blossom. 

Thus  it  was — so  easily — so  sweetly — did  we  pass  into  the 
condition  of  lovers.  Yet  we  had  been  lovers  all  the  time. 


CHAPTER  V 

WEDDING  BELLS  AND  THE  BOOK  OF  THE  PLAY 

WE  were  married  without  delay.  Why  should  we  wait? 
I  should  be  no  richer  for  waiting  and  time  would  be  pass- 
ing. We  were  married,  therefore.  It  was  impossible 
from  time  to  time  we  should  not  be  reminded  of  the  lowly 
station  in  which  we  lived.  When  one  of  my  cousins  was 
married,  what  preparations!  what  feasts  arranged  and  pro- 
vided !  What  troops  of  guests !  What  a  noble  company  in 
the  Church!  What  crowds  afterwards — the  street  filled 
with  beggars  come  for  the  broken  victuals :  the  butchers  with 


How  I  Got  Into  the  King's  Bench        41 

their  din  unmusical  of  marrow-bones  and  cleavers :  the  band 
of  music  playing  outside :  the  acclamation  of  the  crowd  when 
the  bride  was  brought  back  from  church :  the  rooms  full  of 
guests  all  with  wedding  favours:  the  loving-cup  passing 
from  hand  to  hand:  the  kissing  of  the  bridesmaids:  the 
merriment  and  coquetry  over  the  bride-cake  and  the  wed- 
ding-ring! All  this  I  remembered  and  it  made  me  sad  for 
a  moment.  Not  for  long,  for  beside  me  stood  a  bride 
sweeter  far  than  was  any  cousin  of  mine :  and  I  was  a  musi- 
cian; and  I  was  independent. 

We  walked  over  the  Fields  to  St.  George's  Church  and 
were  there  married  at  ten  o'clock  in  the  morning.  Tom 
gave  away  his  sister:  Alice  had  no  bridesmaids:  I  had  no 
groomsmen :  there  was  no  crowd  of  witnesses :  there  was  no 
loving-cup.  We  were  married  in  an  empty  church,  and 
after  marriage  we  walked  home  again  to  Tom's  cottage. 

He  sat  down  and  played  a  wedding  march,  of  his  own 
composition,  made  for  the  occasion.  'There!'  he  said,  'that 
is  better  than  a  wedding  feast — yet  there  shall  be  a  wedding 
feast  and  of  the  best.' 

It  was  served  at  noon:  there  was  a  duck  pie:  a  pair  of 
soles :  a  cowslip  tart — a  very  dainty  dish :  and  fried  sweet- 
breads. After  dinner  there  was  a  bottle  of  port. 

'Will,'  said  my  brother-in-law,  taking  the  last  glass  in 
the  bottle,  'who  would  be  one  of  those  unhappy  creatures 
who  cannot  be  married  without  crowds  and  noise  and  a 
great  company?  Here  are  we,  contented  with  ourselves: 
we  have  been  married:  we  have  had  a  royal  banquet — your 
sweetbreads,  wife,  were  a  morsel  for  a  king.  You  are  con- 
tented, Will?' 

'Quite.'     For  I  was  holding  Alice  by  the  hand. 

'You  never  regret  the  flesh-pots?' 

'Never — I  have  forgotten  them.'  This  was  not  quite  true, 
but  it  passed. 

'I  have  sometimes  thought' — he  looked  from  me  to  Alice 
and  from  Alice  to  me  again — 'that  there  might  have  been 
regrets.' 

'There  can  be  none,  now/ 

'Good.  Hands  upon  it,  brother.  We  shall  miss  Alice, 
shall  we  not,  wife?  But  she  will  not  be  far  off.  So/  A 
tear  stood  in  his  eye  while  he  kissed  his  sister.  'Now/  he 
said,  'enough  of  sentiment.  The  day  is  before  us.  I  have 
got  a  man  to  take  my  place  to-night  and  another  to  take 


42  The  Orange  Girl 

yours.  On  such  an  occasion,  Will,  we  must  not  spare  and 
grudge.  We  will  see  the  sights  of  London  and  then — then 
— none  of  your  Pleasure  Gardens — we  will — but  I  have  a 
surprise  for  you/ 

We  sallied  forth.  Never  was  a  wedding-day  kept  in  so 
strange  a  fashion.  We  took  oars  at  the  Falcon  Stairs  to 
the  Tower.  Now  Alice  had  spent  all  her  life  in  or  about 
the  Rules  of  the  King's  Bench,  but  she  had  never  seen  Lon- 
don City  or  the  Sights  of  London.  To  her  everything  was 
new.  We  showed  her  the  Tower  and  the  wild  beasts  and 
the  arms  and  armour  and  the  Royal  Crown  and  Sceptre. 
After  the  Tower,  we  walked  along  Thames  Street  where 
are  the  Custom  House  and  Billingsgate  Market  and  the 
Steelyard  and  the  Monument.  We  climbed  up  the  Monu- 
ment for  the  sake  of  the  view:  it  was  a  clear  day,  and  we 
could  discern  in  the  distance  Lambeth  Palace  and  the  Church 
and  perhaps  even,  one  was  not  sure,  the  cottage  which  we 
had  taken  on  the  Bank.  After  this  we  went  to  see  the 
Guildhall  and  the  famous  Giants:  then  the  Bank  of  Eng- 
land and  the  Royal  Exchange:  we  looked  at  the  shops  in 
Cheapside:  they  are  the  richest  shops  in  the  world,  but  the 
mercers  and  haberdashers  do  not  put  out  in  the  window 
their  costly  stuffs  to  tempt  the  shoplifter.  'You  must 
imagine,  Alice/  I  told  her,  'the  treasures  that  lie  within: 
some  time  if  we  ever  become  rich  you  shall  come  here  and 
buy  to  your  heart's  content/  Then  we  entered  St.  Paul's, 
that  solemn  and  magnificent  pile :  here  we  heard  part  of  the 
afternoon  service,  the  boys  in  their  white  surplices  singing 
like  angels,  so  that  the  tears  rolled  down  my  girl's  face — 
they  were  tears  of  praise  and  prayer,  not  of  repentance. 
From  St.  Paul's  we  walked  up  the  narrow  street  called  the 
Old  Bailey  and  saw  the  outside  of  Newgate.  Now  had  we 
known  what  things  we  were  to  do  and  to  suffer  in  that  awful 
place,  I  think  we  should  have  prayed  for  death.  But 
Heaven  mercifully  withholds  the  future. 

It  was  then  about  five  o'clock.  We  went  to  a  coffee-house 
and  took  some  coffee  and  ratafia.  The  animation  of  the 
place ;  the  brisk  conversation  ;  the  running  about  of  the  boys : 
the  fragrant  odour  of  the  coffee:  pleased  us.  There  were 
coffee-houses  in  the  High  Street,  but  they  lacked  the  viva- 
city of  this  on  Ludgate  Hill,  where  Templars,  Doctors  of 
Divinity,  and  the  mercers  and  goldsmiths  of  Ludgate  Hill 
and  Fleet  Street  were  assembled  together  to  talk  and  drink 


WE   TOOK    OARS    AT    THE    FALCON    STAIRS   TO    THE   TOWER. 


How  I  Got  Into  the  King's  Bench        43 

the  fragrant  beverage  which  has  done  so  much  to  soften  the 
manners  of  the  better  sort. 

'And  now/  said  Tom,  'for  my  surprise.' 

He  called  a  coach  and  we  drove  not  knowing  whither; 
he  was  taking  us  to  Drury  Lane. 

We  were  to  celebrate  our  wedding-day  by  going  to  the 
Play. 

For  my  own  part  I  had  never — for  reasons  which  you  will 
understand — been  allowed  to  go  to  the  Play.  To  sober- 
mi  ndecl  merchants  the  Play  was  a  thing  abhorrent :  a  hot-bed 
of  temptation :  the  amusements  of  Prodigals  and  Profligates. 
Therefore  I  had  never  seen  the  Play.  Nor  had  Alice  or  her 
sister-in-law,  while  Tom,  who  had  once  played  in  the  orches- 
tra, had  never  seen  the  Play  since  his  debts  carried  him  off 
to  the  King's  Bench. 

We  found  good  places  in  the  Boxes:  the  House  was  not 
yet  half  full  and  the  candles  were  not  all  lighted:  many  of 
the  seats  were  occupied  by  footmen  waiting  for  ther  mis- 
tresses to  take  them:  in  the  Pit  the  gentlemen,  who  seemed 
to  know  each  other,  were  standing  about  in  little  knots  con- 
versing with  the  utmost  gravity.  One  would  have  thought 
that  affairs  of  state  were  being  discussed:  on  the  contrary, 
we  were  assured,  they  were  arguing  as  to  the  merits  or  the 
blemishes  of  the  piece,  now  in  its  third  night. 

Presently  the  musicians  came  in  and  the  cheerful  sound 
of  tuning  up  began :  then  the  House  began  to  fill  up  rapidly : 
and  the  orange  girls  made  their  way  about  the  Pit  with 
their  baskets,  and  walked  about  the  back  of  the  boxes  calling 
out  their  'fine  Chaney  orange — fine  Chaney  orange.'  Why 
do  I  note  these  familiar  things?  Because  they  were  not 
familiar  to  me:  because  they  are  always  connected  in  my 
mind  with  what  followed. 

The  play  was  'The  Country  Girl/  The  story  is  about 
an  innocent  Country  Girl,  an  heiress,  who  knows  nothing  of 
London,  or  of  the  world.  Her  guardian  wants  to  marry  her 
himself  for  the  sake  of  her  money,  though  he  is  fifty  and 
she  is  twenty:  as  he  cannot  do  so  without  certain  papers 
being  drawn  up,  he  makes  her  believe  that  they  are  married 
by  breaking  a  sixpence,  and  brings  her  to  London  with  him. 
How  she  deceives  him,  pretends  this  and  that,  makes  appoint- 
ments and  writes  love-letters  under  his  very  nose,  wrings  his 
consent  to  a  subterfuge  and  marries  the  man  she  loves — 
these  things  compose  the  whole  play. 


44  The  Orange  Girl 

The  first  Act,  I  confess,  touched  me  little.  The  young 
fellow,  the  lover,  talks  about  the  girl  he  loves :  her  guardian 
is  introduced :  there  is  no  action :  and  there  were  no  women. 
I  felt  no  interest  in  the  talk  of  the  men:  there  was  an  old 
rake  and  a  young  rake;  the  soured  and  gloomy  guardian, 
and  the  lover.  They  did  not  belong  to  my  world,  either  of 
the  City  or  of  St.  George's  Fields. 

But  in  the  second  Act  the  Country  Girl  herself  appeared 
and  with  her  as  a  foil  and  for  companion  the  town  woman. 
Now  the  Country  Girl,  Peggy  by  name,  instantly,  on  her 
very  first  appearance,  ravished  all  hearts.  For  she  was  so 
lovely,  with  her  light  hair  hardly  dressed  at  all,  hanging  in 
curls  over  her  neck  and  shoulders,  her  bright  eyes,  her  quick 
movements,  that  no  one  could  resist  her.  She  brought  with 
her  on  the  stage  the  air  of  the  country;  one  seemed  to 
breathe  the  perfumes  of  roses  and  jessamine.  And  she  was 
so  curious  and  so  ignorant  and  so  innocent.  She  had  been 
taken,  the  evening  before,  to  the  Play :  she  found  the  actors 
'the  goodliest,  properest  men':  she  liked  them  'hugeously': 
she  wants  to  go  out  and  see  the  streets  and  the  people.  Her 
curmudgeon  of  a  guardian  comes  in  and  treats  her  with  the 
barbarity  of  a  natural  bad  temper  irritated  by  jealousy. 
There  was  a  charming  scene  in  which  the  Country  Girl  is 
dressed  as  a  boy  so  that  she  may  walk  in  the  Park  without 
being  recognised  by  her  lover — but  she  is  recognised  and  is 
kissed  by  the  very  man  whom  her  guardian  dreads.  There 
is  another  in  which  she  is  made  to  write  a  letter  forbidding 
her  lover  ever  to  see  her  again :  this  is  dictated  by  the  guar- 
dian :  when  he  goes  to  fetch  sealing-wax  she  writes  another 
exactly  the  opposite  and  substitutes  it.  Now  all  this  was 
done  with  so  much  apparent  artlessness  and  so  much  real 
feminine  cunning  that  the  play  was  charming  whenever  the 
Country  Girl  was  on  the  stage. 

It  was  over  too  soon. 

'Oh !'  cried  Alice.  'She  is  an  angel,  sure.  How  fortunate 
was  the  exchange  of  letters!  And  how  lucky  that  he  was 
made,  without  knowing  it,  to  grant  his  consent.  I  hope  that 
her  lover  will  treat  her  well.  She  will  be  a  fond  wife,  Will, 
do  you  not  think?' 

And  so  she  went  on  as  if  the  play  was  real  and  the 
Country  Girl  came  really  from  the  country  and  the  thing 
really  happened.  The  name  of  the  actress,  I  saw  on  the 
Play  Bill,  was  Miss  Jenny  Wilmot.  I  am  not  surprised 


How  I  Got  Into  the  King's  Bench        45 

looking  back  on  that  evening.  The  wit  and  sparkle  of  her 
words  seemed,  by  the  way  she  spoke  them,  invented  by  her- 
self on  the  spot.  She  held  the  House  in  a  spell :  when  she 
left  the  stage  the  place  became  instantly  dull  and  stupid : 
when  she  returned  the  stage  became  once  more  bright. 

We  went  back  by  water :  it  was  a  fine  evening :  a  thousand 
stars  were  gleaming  in  the  sky  and  in  the  water:  we  were 
all  silent,  as  happens  when  people  have  passed  a  day  of 
emotions.  At  my  brother-in-law's  cottage  we  made  a  sup- 
per out  of  the  remains  of  the  dinner,  and  after  supper  Alice 
and  I  went  away  to  the  house  we  had  taken  at  Lambeth,  be- 
side the  church.  And  so  our  wedded  life  began. 

There  was  another  incident  connected  with  my  wedding 
which  turned  out  to  be  the  innocent  cause  of  a  great  deal  that 
happened  afterwards. 

Among  my  former  friends  in  the  City  was  a  certain  Mr. 
David  Camlet  who  had  a  shop  in  Bucklersbury  for  the  sale 
of  musical  instruments.  He  allowed  me  the  run  of  the  place 
arid  to  try  different  instruments ;  it  was  he  who  first  taught 
me  to  play  the  harpsicord  and  suffered  me  to  practise  in  his 
back  parlour  overlooking  the  little  churchyard  of  St.  Pancras. 
The  good  old  man  would  also  converse  with  me — say,  rather, 
instruct  me  in  the  history  of  composers  and  their  works.  Of 
the  latter  he  had  a  fine  collection.  In  brief  he  was  a  musi- 
cian born  and,  as  we  say,  to  the  finger  tips ;  a  bachelor  who 
wanted  no  wife  or  mistress ;  one  who  lived  a  simple  happy 
life  among  his  instruments  and  with  his  music.  Whether 
he  was  rich  or  not,  I  do  not  know. 

He  knew  the  difficulties  which  surrounded  me :  I  used  to 
tell  him  all:  my  father's  prejudice  against  music:  my  own 
dislike  of  figures  and  accounts :  my  refuge  in  the  highest 
garret  when  I  wished  to  practice — only  at  such  times  when 
my  father  was  out  of  the  house:  my  beloved  teacher  in  the 
King's  Bench  Rules :  he  encouraged  me  and  warned  me :  he 
took  the  most  kindly  interest  in  my  position,  counselling  al- 
ways obedience  and  submission  even  if  by  so  doing  I  was 
forbidden  to  practise  at  all  for  a  time :  offering  his  own  par- 
lour as  a  place  of  retreat  where  I  could  without  fear  of  dis- 
covery practise  as  much  as  I  pleased. 

When  I  was  turned  out  of  the  house,  I  made  haste  to 
inform  him  what  had  happened.  He  lifted  up  his  hands  in 
consternation.  'What?'  he  cried.  'You,  the  only  son  of 
Sir  Peter  Halliday,  Knight,  Alderman,  ex-Lord  Mayor,  the 


46  The  Orange  Girl 

greatest  merchant  in  the  City :  the  heir  to  a  plum — what  do  I 
say  ?  Three  or  four  plums  at  the  least :  the  future  partner 
of  so  great  a  business :  the  future  owner  of  a  fleet,  and  the 
finest  and  best  appointed  fleet  on  the  seas — and  you  throw 
all  this  away ' 

'But/  I  said,  'I  will  be  nothing  but  a  musician/ 

'Thou  shalt  be  a  musician,  lad.  Wait — thou  shalt  have 
music  for  a  hobby.  It  is  good  and  useful  to  be  a  patron  of 
music:  to  encourage  musicians/ 

'But  I  would  be  a  musician  by  profession/ 

'It  is  a  poor  profession,  Will.  Believe  me,  it  is  a  beggarly 
profession.  If  you  think  of  making  money  by  it — give  up 
that  hope/ 

That  day  I  had  ringing  in  my  ears  'certain  glowing  words 
of  Tom  Shirley  upon  the  profession  and  I  laughed. 

'What  do  I  care  about  poverty,  if  I  can  only  be  a  musician  ? 
Mr.  Camlet,  you  have  been  so  kind  to  me  always,  do  not 
dissuade  me.  I  have  chosen  my  path/  I  added  with  the 
grandeur  that  belongs  to  ignorance,  'and  I  abide  by  my 
lot/ 

He  sighed.  'Nay,  lad,  I  will  not  dissuade  thee.  Poverty 
is  easy  to  face,  when  one  is  young:  it  is  hard  to  bear  when 
one  is  old/ 

'Then  we  shall  be  friends  still,  and  I  may  come  to  see  you 
sometimes  when  I  am  a  great  composer/ 

He  took  my  hand.  'Will/  he  said,  with  humid  eyes, 
'Music  is  a  capricious  goddes's.  It  is  not  her  most  pious 
votary  whom  she  most  often  rewards.  Be  a  musician  if  she 
permits.  If  not,  be  a  player  only.  Many  are  called  but 
few  are  chosen.  Of  great  composers,  there  are  but  one  or 
two  in  a  generation.  'Tis  an  eager  heart,  and  an  eager  face. 
The  Lord  be  good  to  thee,  Will  Halliday !' 

From  time  to  time  I  visited  this  kind  old  man,  telling  him 
all  that  I  did  and  hiding  nothing.  At  the  thought  of  my 
playing  at  the  riverside  tavern  for  the  sailors  to  dance  he 
laughed  till  the  tears  ran  down  his  cheeks.  'Why/  he  said, 
'it  was  but  yesterday  that  I  looked  in  at  Change,  because  it 
does  one  good  sometimes  to  gaze  upon  those  who,  like  the 
pillars  of  St.  Paul's  bear  up  and  sustain  this  great  edifice  of 
London.  Among  the  merchants,  Will,  I  saw  thy  respected 
father.  Truly  there  was  so  much  dignity  upon  his  brow :  so 
much  authority  in  his  walk:  so  much  mastery  in  his  voice: 
so  much  consideration  in  his  reception :  that  I  marvelled  how 


How  I  Got  Into  the  King's  Bench       47 

a  stripling  like  thyself  should  dare  to  rebel.  And  to  think 
that  his  son  plays  the  fiddle  in  a  sanded  tavern  for  ragged 
Jack  tars  to  dance  with  their  Polls  and  Molls.  I  cannot 
choose  but  laugh.  Pray  Heaven,  he  never  learn !' 

But  he  did  learn.  My  good  cousin  kept  himself  informed 
of  my  doings  somehow,  and  was  careful  to  let  my  father 
know. 

'Sir  Peter  looks  well/  Mr.  Camlet  went  on.  'He  is  per- 
haps stouter  than  is  good  for  him:  his  cheeks  are  red,  but 
that  is  common:  and  his  neck  is  swollen  more  than  I 
should  like  my  own  to  be.  Yet  he  walks  sturdily  and  will 
wear  yet,  no  doubt  many  a  long  year.  London  is  a  healthy 
place/ 

Presently  I  was  able  to  tell  him  that  I  was  about  to  be 
married,  being  in  a  position  which  seemed  to  promise  a 
sufficiency.  He  wished  me  hearty  congratulations^  and 
begged  to  know  the  happy  day  and  the  place  of  our  abode. 

On  the  morning  after  our  wedding,  before  we  had  had 
time  to  look  around  us  in  our  three-roomed  cottage — it  was 
designed  for  one  of  the  Thames  fisherman:  hardly  had  I 
found  time  to  talk  over  the  disposition  of  the  furniture,  I 
perceived,  from  the  casement  window,  marching  valiantly 
down  the  lane  from  St.  George's  Fields,  my  old  friend  Mr. 
David  Camlet.  The  day  was  warm  and  he  carried  his  wig 
and  hat  in  one  hand,  mopping  his  head  with  a  handkerchief. 

'He  comes  to  visit  us,  my  dear,'  I  said.  'It  is  Mr.  Camlet. 
What  is  he  bringing  with  him?' 

For  beside  him  a  man  dragged  a  hand-cart  in  which  lay 
something  large  and  square,  covered  with  matting. 

'He  is  the  maker  of  musical  instruments/  I  explained. 
'Alice,  what  if — in  the  cart ' 

'Oh,  Will— if  it  were ' 

Know  that  my  great  desire  was  to  possess  a  harpsichord, 
which  for  purposes  of  composition  is  almost  a  necessity. 
But  such  an  instrument  was  altogether  beyond  my  hopes. 
I  might  as  well  have  yearned  for  an  organ. 

He  stopped  where  the  houses  began  and  looked  about  him. 
He  made  straight  for  our  door  which  was  open  and  knocked 
gently  with  his  knuckles. 

Alice  went  out  to  meet  him.  By  this  time  he  had  put 
on  his  wig  and  stood  with  his  hat  under  his  arm. 

'The  newly  married  lady  of  my  young  friend,  Master  Will 
Hallidav?'  he  asked.  'I  knew  it.  In  such  a  matter  I  am 


48  The  Orange  Girl 

never  wrong.  Virtue,  Madam,  sits  on  thy  brow,  Love  upon 
thy  lips.  Permit  an  old  man — yet  a  friend  of  thy  worthy 
husband' — so  saying  he  kissed  her  with  great  ceremony. 
Then  at  length,  the  room  being  rather  dark  after  the  bright 
sunshine,  he  perceived  me,  and  shaking  hands  wished  me 
every  kind  of  happiness. 

'I  am  old,'  he  said,  'and  it  is  too  late  for  me  to  become 
acquainted  with  Love.  Yet  I  am  assured  that  if  two  people 
truly  love  one  another,  to  the  bearing  of  each  other's  bur- 
dens: to  working  for  each  other:  then  may  life  be  stripped 
of  half  its  terrors.  I  say  nothing  of  the  blessing  of  children, 
the  support  and  prop  of  old  age.  My  children,  love  each 
other  always/  Alice  took  my  hand.  'For  better  for  worse ; 
in  poverty  and  in  riches :  love  each  other  always/ 

I  drew  my  girl  closer  and  kissed  her.  The  old  man 
coughed  huskily.  'Twas  a  tender  heart,  even  at  seventy. 

Alice  gave  him  a  chair :  she  also  brought  out  the  wedding 
cake  (which  she  made  herself — a  better  cake  was  never 
made)  and  she  opened  the  bottle  of  cherry  brandy  we  had 
laid  in  fov  occasions.  He  took  a  glass  of  the  cordial  to  the 
health  of  the  bride,  and  ate  a  piece  of  bride  cake  to  our  good 
luck. 

'This  fellow  ought  to  be  fortunate,'  he  said,  nodding  at 
me.  'He  has  given  up  all  for  the  sake  of  music.  He  ought 
to  be  rewarded.  He  might  have  been  the  richest  merchant 
on  Change.  But  he  preferred  to  be  a  musician,  and  to  begin 
at  the  lowest  part  of  the  ladder.  It  is  wonderful  devotion/ 

'Sir,  I  have  never  regretted  my  decision/ 

'That  is  still  more  wonderful.  No — no — I  am  wrong' 
— he  laughed — 'quite  wrong.  If  you  were  to  regret  it,  now, 
you  would  be  the  most  thankless  dog  in  the  world.  Aha! 
The  recompense  begins — in  full  measure — overflowing — 
with  such  a  bride/ 

'Oh!  Sir,'  murmured  Alice  blushing. 

He  took  a  second  glass  of  cherry  brandy  and  began  a 
speech  of  some  length  of  which  I  only  remember  the  con- 
clusion. 

'Wherefore,  my  friends,  since  life  is  short,  resolve  to  en- 
joy all  that  it  has  to  give — together:  and  to  suffer  all  that 
it  has  to  inflict — together.  There  is  much  to  enjoy  that 
is  lawful  and  innocent.  The  Lord  is  mindful  of  His 
own — Love  is  lawful,  and  innocent:  there  is  abiding  com- 
fort in  love :  trust  in  each  other  raises  the  soul  of  him  who 


How  I  Got  Into  the  King's  Bench        49 

trusts  and  of  him  who  is  trusted :  sweet  music  is  lawful  and 
innocent :  if  there  is  ever  any  doubt :  if  there  is  any  trouble : 
if  any  fail  in  love:  if  the  world  becomes  like  a  threatening 
sea :  you  shall  find  in  music  new  strength  and  comfort.  But 
why  do  I  speak  of  the  solace  of  music  to  Will  Halliday  and 
the  sister  of  Tom  Shirley?  Therefore,  I  say  no  more/ 

He  stopped  and  rose.  Alice  poured  out  another  glass 
of  cherry  brandy  for  him. 

'I  nearly  forgot  what  I  came  for.  Such  is  the  effect  of 
contemplating  happiness.  Will,  I  have  thought  for  a  long 
time  that  you  wanted  a  harpsichord/ 

'Sir,  it  has  been  ever  beyond  my  dreams/ 

'Then  I  am  glad — because  I  can  now  supply  that  want. 
I  have  brought  with  me,  dear  lad — and  dear  blooming  bride, 
as  good  an  instrument  as  I  have  in  my  shop:  no  better  in 
all  the  world/  He  went  out  and  called  his  man.  We  lifted 
the  instrument — it  was  most  beautiful  not  only  in  touch 
but  also  with  its  rosewood  case.  We  set  it  up  and  I  tried  it. 

'Oh!'  Alice  caught  his  hand  and  kissed  it.  'Now  Will 
is  happy  indeed.  How  can  we  thank  you  sufficiently  ?' 

'Play  upon  it/  he  said.  'Play  daily  upon  it:  play  the 
finest  music  only  upon  it.  So  shall  your  souls  be  raised — 
even  to  the  gates  of  Heaven/ 

Once  more  he  drew  my  wife  towards  him  and  kissed  her 
on  the  forehead.  Then  he  seized  my  hand  and  shook  it  and 
before  I  had  time  or  could  find  words  to  speak  or  to  thank 
him,  he  was  gone,  marching  down  the  hot  lane  with  the  firm 
step  of  thirty,  instead  of  seventy. 

A  noble  gift,  dictated  by  the  most  friendly  feeling.  Yet 
it  led  to  the  first  misfortune  of  my  life — one  that  might  well 
have  proved  a  misfortune  impossible  to  be  overcome. 

Then  began  our  wedded  life.  For  two  years  we  con- 
tinued to  live  in  that  little  cottage.  There  our  first  child 
was  born,  a  lovely  boy.  Every  evening  I  repaired  to  the 
Dog  and  Duck,  and  took  my  place  in  the  orchestra.  Famil- 
iarity makes  one  callous :  I  had  long  since  ceased  to  regard 
the  character  of  the  company.  They  might  be,  as  Tom  pre- 
tended, the  most  aristocratic  assembly  in  the  world:  they 
might  be  the  reverse.  The  coloured  lamps  in  the  garden 
pleased  me  no  more :  nor  did  the  sight  of  those  who  danced 
or  the  pulling  of  corks  and  the  singing  of  songs  after  supper 
in  the  bowers:  the  ladies  were  no  longer  beautiful  in  my 
eyes :  I  enquired  not  about  the  entertainment  except  for  my 


50  The  Orange  Girl 

own  part:  I  never  looked  at  the  fireworks.  All  these 
things  to  one  who  has  to  attend  night  after  night  becomes 
part  of  the  work  and  not  of  the  entertainment  and  amuse- 
ment of  life. 

The  musician  is  a  being  apart.  He  takes  no  part  in  the 
conduct  of  State  or  City :  he  is  not  a  philosopher :  or  a 
theologian :  he  is  not  a  preacher  or  teacher :  he  writes  noth- 
ing either  for  instruction  or  for  amusement:  in  the  pleas- 
ures of  mankind  he  assists  but  having  no  share  or  part  in 
them.  His  place  is  in  the  gallery:  they  cannot  do  without 
him :  he  cannot  live  without  them :  but  he  is  a  creature  apart. 

My  mornings  were  my  own.  Sometimes  I  walked  with 
Alice  on  the  terrace  of  Lambeth  Palace:  or  went  down 
into  the  Marsh  and  walked  about  the  meadows:  we  made 
no  friends  except  among  the  humble  fishermen  to  whose 
wives  Alice  taught  cleanliness.  Sometimes,  after  the  child 
came,  I  would  leave  Alice  for  the  morning  and  walk  into 
the  City.  Perhaps  I  had  a  hope  that  I  might  meet  my 
father.  I  never  did,  however.  I  looked  for  him  on 
Change :  I  walked  in  Great  College  Street :  but  I  never 
met  him.  I  knew  beforehand  that  my  reception  would  be 
of  the  coldest — but  I  wanted  to  see  him  and  to  speak  with 
him.  I  went  down  to  Billingsgate  Stairs  and  took  boat  and 
was  rowed  about  the  ships  in  the  Pool.  There  I  recognised 
our  own  ships:  they  might  have  been  my  own,  but  would 
never  be  mine,  now.  All  these  things  I  had  thrown  away — 
ships,  wharf,  trade,  fortune.  It  made  me  proud  to  think  so. 
Yet  I  would  have  spoken  to  my  father  had  I  met  him. 

Once  I  met  Matthew  in  the  street  and  passed  him  touch- 
ing shoulders.  He  looked  me  full  in  the  face  with  the  pre- 
tence of  not  knowing  me.  I  commanded  my  temper  and  let 
him  go  without  expostulation  which  would  have  led  to  a 
second  fight,  for  which  I  had  no  desire. 

On  two  other  occasions  I  saw  him  though  he  did  not  see 
me.  The  first  was  on  a  certain  afternoon  in  October  when 
it  grows  dark  about  five.  I  was  strolling  down  Garlick- 
hithe  near  Queenhithe.  As  I  passed  the  Church  of  St. 
James's  which  stands  a  little  back  with  steps  I  saw  two 
figures  conversing:  one  was  a  man  whom  I  knew  at  once 
for  my  cousin  by  his  shoulders  and  by  the  shape  of  his  head. 
The  other  was  a  woman  with  a  veil  over  her  face.  I  knew 
the  man  next  by  his  voice.  Our  Matthew  had  such  a  voice 


How  I  Got  Into  the  King's  Bench        51 

— oily  and  yet  harsh.  'If  you  loved  me/  he  said,  'you  would 
do  this  simple  thing/ 

'I  will  never  do  it/  she  declared,  passionately.  'You  have 
deceived  me/ 

I  would  not  be  an  eavesdropper,  and  I  passed  on.  Mat- 
thew, therefore,  had  'deceived' — the  word  may  mean  many 
things — a  woman.  Matthew,  of  all  men !  However,  it  was 
no  concern  of  mine. 

A  third  time  I  saw  him — or  heard  him,  because  I  did  not 
see  him.  It  was  in  one  of  those  taverns  where  small  square 
pews  are  provided  with  high  walls  so  that  one  cannot  be 
heard.  I  sat  in  one  with  Tom  Shirley,  taking  a  pint  of 
wine.  All  round  were  the  voices  of  people  carrying  on 
business  in  whispers  and  in  murmurs.  Suddenly  I  distin- 
guished the  voice  of  Matthew. 

'The  security  is  good/  he  said.  'There  is  no  finer  security 
in  the  City.  I  want  the  money/ 

'You  can  have  some  to-morrow  night/  I  was  destined  to 
hear  a  great  deal  more  of  that  grating  voice.  'And  the 
rest  next  week,  if  I  can  get  the  papers  signed.  It  is  a  con- 
fidential business,  I  suppose. 

'Nothing  is  to  be  said.  Our  House  does  not  like  to  bor- 
row money,  but  the  occasion  is  pressing/ 

'Let  us  go/  I  said  to  Tom.  'We  shall  learn  presently 
all  Matthew's  secrets/ 

'Matthew?    Your  cousin  Matthew?' 

'He  is  in  one  of  the  boxes.  I  have  heard  his  voice. 
Come,  Tom/ 


CHAPTER  VI 

A  CITY  FUNERAL 

THUS  we  lived — humble  folk  if  you  please — far  from  the 
world  of  wealth  or  of  fashion. 

This  happiness  was  too  great  to  last.  We  were  to  be 
stricken  down,  yet  not  unto  death. 

The  troubles  began  with  the  death  of  my  father. 

One  morning,  when  he  ought  to  have  been  at  his  desk, 
my  old  friend  Ramage  came  to  see  me. 

'Master  Will/  he  said,  the  tears  running  down  his  cheeks, 


52  The  Orange  Girl 

'Master  Will — 'tis  now  too  late.  You  will  never  be  recon- 
ciled now.' 

'What  has  happened?'  I  asked.'  But  his  troubled  face 
told  me. 

'My  master  fell  down  in  a  fit  last  night,  coming  home  from 
the  Company's  feast.  They  carried  him  home  and  put  him 
to  bed.  But  in  the  night  he  died/ 

In  such  a  case  as  mine  one  always  hopes  vaguely  for  rec- 
onciliation, so  long  as  there  is  life:  without  taking  any 
steps,  one  thinks  that  a  reconciliation  will  come  of  its  own 
accord.  I  now  believe  that  if  I  had  gone  to  my  father  and 
put  the  case  plainly:  my  manifest  vocation:  my  incapacity 
for  business;  if  I  had  asked  his  permission  to  continue  in 
the  musical  profession:  if  I  had,  further,  humbled  myself 
so  far  as  to  admit  that  I  deserved  at  his  hands  nothing  less 
than  to  be  cut  off  without  a  shilling:  he  might  have  given 
way.  It  is  a  terrible  thing  to  know  that  your  father  has 
died  with  bitterness  in  his  heart  against  his  only  son.  Or, 
I  might  have  sent  Alice,  with  the  child.  Surely  the  sight 
of  that  sweet  girl,  the  sight  of  the  helpless  child,  would  have 
moved  him.  I  reproached  myself,  in  a  word,  when  it  was 
too  late. 

'Sir,'  said  the  .clerk,  'I  do  not  believe  that  Mr.  Matthew, 
or  his  father,  will  send  you  word  of  this  event,  or  of  the 
funeral.' 

'They  do*not  know  where  I  live/ 

'Excuse  me,  Sir,  Mr.  Matthew  knows  where  you  live  and 
everything  that  you  have  done  since  you  left  your  home. 
Believe  me,  Mr.  Will,  you  have  no  greater  enemy  than  your 
cousin.  He  has  constantly  inflamed  your  father's  mind 
against  you.  It  was  he  who  told  my  master  that  you  were 
playing  for  sailors  at  a  common  tavern  with  a  red  blind  and 
a  sanded  floor.  He  told  him  that  you  were  playing  in  the 
orchestra  at  the  Dog  and  Duck  for  all  the  'prentices  and 
the  demireps  of  town:  he  told  him  that  you  had  married — 
a ' 

'Stop,  Ramage,  lest  I  do  my  cousin  a  mischief.  How  do 
you  know  all  this?' 

*I  listen/  he  replied.  'From  my  desk,  I  can  hear  plainly 
what  is  said  in  the  counting-house.  I  listen.  I  can  do  no 
good.  But  sometimes  it  is  well  to  know  what  goes  on/ 

'It  may  be  useful — but  to  listen — well — Ramage,  is  there 
more  to  tell?' 


How  I  Got  Into  the  King's  Bench        53 

'This.  They  do  not  intend  to  invite  you  to  the  funeral. 
Mr.  Matthew  will  assume  the  place  of  the  heir,  and  his 
father  will  be  chief  mourner.' 

'Oh !  Do  you  tell  me,  old  friend,  when  it  is  to  take  place, 
and  I  will  be  there/ 

So  he  promised,  though  it  was  worth  his  situation  if  he 
were  found  out  to  have  held  any  intercourse  with  me.  In 
the  end  it  proved  useful  to  have  a  friend  in  the  enemy's 
camp.  At  the  time,  I  laughed  at  danger.  What  had  I 
to  fear  from  Matthew's  enmity? 

The  manner  of  my  father's  death  is  common  among  Mer- 
chants of  the  City  of  London.  Their  very  success  makes 
them  liable  to  it:  the  City  customs  favour  feasting  and  the 
drinking  of  wine :  the  richer  sort  ride  in  a  coach  when  they 
should  be  walking  for  health :  it  is  seldom,  indeed,  that  one 
may  meet  a  citizen  of  Quality  walking  in  the  fields  of  which 
there  are  so  many  and  of  such  a  wholesome  air  round  Lon- 
don, whether  we  go  East  to  the  fields  of  Mile  End  and  Bow : 
or  North  where,  not  to  speak  of  Moorfields,  there  are  the 
fields  this  side  of  Islington:  or  on  the  West  where  are  the 
fields  of  Westminster  and  Chelsea :  or  South  wherethe  whole 
country  is  a  verdant  meadow  with  orchards.  I  say  that 
among  the  crowds  who  flock  out  on  a  summer  evening  to 
take  the  air  (and  other  refreshments)  in  these  fields,  one 
may  look  in  vain  for  the  substantial  merchant.  He  takes 
the  air  lolling  in  his  coach :  he  feasts  every  day,  drinking 
quantities  of  rich  and  strong  wine  such  as  Port  or  Lisbon: 
'he  stays  too  much  indoors:  the  counting-house  is  too  often 
but  a  step  from  the  parlour. 

The  consequence  is  natural:  at  thirty-five  the  successful 
merchant  begins  to  swell  and  to  expand :  his  figure  becomes 
arched  or  rounded :  perhaps  his  nose  grows  red :  at  forty- 
five  his  circumference  is  great:  his  neck  is  swollen;  his 
cheek  is  red:  perhaps  his  nose  has  become  what  is  called  a 
Bottle.  Soon  after  fifty,  he  is  seized  with  an  apoplexy.  It 
is  whispered  on  Change  that  such  an  one  fell  down  step- 
ping out  of  his  Company's  Hall,  after  a  Feast,  into  the  road : 
that  he  never  recovered  consciousness:  and  that  he  is  dead. 
The  age  of  fifty,  I  take  it,  is  the  grand  Climacteric  of  the 
London  Merchant. 

On  the  day  of  the  funeral,  then,  I  presented  myself,  with 
'Alice,  properly  habited,  to  take  my  place  as  chief  Mourner. 
The  house,  within,  was  all  hung  with  black  cloth.  The  hall 


54  The  Orange  Girl 

and  the  stairs  were  thus  covered:  it  was  evening  at  eight 
o'clock:  candles  placed  in  sconces  feebly  lit  up  the  place: 
at  the  door  and  on  the  stairs  stood  the  undertaker's  men, 
mutes,  bearing  black  staves  with  black  plumes:  within,  the 
undertaker  himself  was  busy  serving  out  black  cloaks,  tying 
the  weepers  on  the  hats,  distributing  the  gloves  and  the  rose- 
mary, and  getting  ready  the  torches. 

Upstairs,  the  room  in  which  my  father's  body  lay  had 
been  prepared  for  the  ceremony.  All  the  furniture — bed, 
chairs,  everything — had  been  taken  out:  there  was  nothing 
at  all  in  the  room  but  the  coffin  on  trestles :  the  wainscotted 
walls  had  been  hung  with  black  velvet,  which  looked  indeed 
funereal  as  it  absorbed  the  light  of  fifty  or  sixty  wax  tapers 
and  reflected  none.  The  tapers  stood  in  silver  sconces  on 
the  walls:  they  showed  up  the  coffin,  the  lid  of  which,  not 
yet  screwed  down,  was  laid  so  as  to  expose  the  white  face 
of  the  deceased,  grave,  set,  serious  and  full  of  dignity.  I 
remembered  how  it  looked,  fiery  and  passionate,  when  my 
father  drove  me  from  his  presence.  The  candles  also  lit 
up  the  faces  of  the  mourners:  in  the  midst  of  so  much 
blackness  their  faces  were  white  and  deathlike.  On  the 
breast  of  the  dead  man  lay  branches  of  rosemary:  on  the 
lid  of  the  coffin  were  branches  of  rosemary,  of  which  every 
person  present  carried  a  sprig.  On  the  lid  of  the  coffin 
was  also  a  large  and  capacious  silver  cup  with  two  handles. 

Only  one  thing  relieved  the  blackness  of  the  walls.  It 
was  a  hatchment  with  the  family  shield.  Everyone  would 
believe,  so  splendid  is  this  coat  of  arms,  that  our  family 
must  rank  among  the  noblest  in  the  land.  But  the  time 
has  passed  when  the  City  Fathers  were  closely  connected 
by  blood  with  the  gentry  and  the  aristocracy  of  the  country : 
of  our  family  one  could  only  point  to  the  shield :  where  we 
came  from,  I  know  not:  nor  how  we  obtained  so  fine  a 
shield:  nor  to  what  station  of  life  my  ancestors  originally 
belonged.  Family  pride,  however,  is  a  harmless  supersti- 
tion: not  one  of  us,  I  am  sure,  would  surrender  that  coat 
of  arms,  or  acknowledge  that  we  were  anything  but  a  very 
ancient  and  honourable  House. 

When  I  entered  the  house,  accompanied  by  Alice,  I  found 
the  hall  and  the  steps,  and  even  the  street  itself,  which  is 
but  narrow,  crowded  with  the  humbler  class  of  mourners. 
There  was  a  whisper  of  surprise,  and  more  than  one  honest 


How  I  Got  Into  the  King's  Bench        55 

hand  furtively  grasped  mine.  Well:  there  would  be  few 
such  hands  to  welcome  Matthew. 

I  did  not  need  to  be  told  where  the  coffin  lay.  I  led  my 
wife  up  the  stairs  and  so  into  my  father's  room,  which  was 
the  best  bedroom,  on  the  first  floor.  I  found  the  various 
members  of  the  family  already  assembled,  my  Uncle  Paul 
as  I  expected,  with  Matthew,  usurping  my  place  at  the  head 
of  the  coffin.  My  cousins,  of  whom  there  were  five-and- 
twenty  at  least,  including  my  Uncle  Paul's  wife  and  two 
daughters,  showed  signs  of  profound  astonishment  at  the 
sight  of  the  banished  son.  The  Alderman,  for  his  part, 
held  up  his  hands  in  amazement,  and  looked  up  to  Heaven 
as  if  to  protest  against  this  assertion  of  filial  rights.  The 
girls,  who  were  as  amiable  as  their  brother  Matthew,  stared 
with  more  rudeness  than  one  would  expect  even  from  a 
Wappineer,  at  Alice.  They  knew  not,  perhaps,  that  I  had 
taken  a  wife:  to  a  natural  curiosity  on  such  a  subject  they 
affected  a  contempt  which  they  took  no  pains  to  disguise. 

There  was  a  man  standing  behind  my  cousin  whom  I 
knew  not:  nor  did  I  understand  by  what  right  he  stood 
among  us  at  all:  a  tall  thin  figure  somewhat  bowed  with 
years:  a  lean  and  wrinkled  face:  his  appearance  filled  me 
with  distrust  at  the  outset — let  no  one  deny  that  first 
thoughts  are  best  thoughts.  He  stooped  and  whispered 
something  to  my  cousin — whose  face  seemed  to  show 
trouble  of  some  kind,  but  not  grief.  Matthew  started,  and 
looked  at  me  with  astonishment. 

I  stepped  forward,  drawing  Alice  with  me.  'Uncle  Paul/ 
I  said,  'I  take  my  place  as  my  father's  chief  mourner. 

My  cousin  glared  at  me,  as  if  threatening  to  dispute  the 
point,  but  he  gave  way  and  retired  to  my  left  hand.  Thus, 
Alice  beside  me,  my  Uncle  Paul  at  my  right,  and  Matthew 
at  my  left,  I  waited  the  arrival  of  the  funeral  guests. 

Meantime,  the  ladies  moaned  and  wailed.  Outside,  the 
women-servants  on  the  stairs  lifted  up  their  lamentation. 
The  crying  of  the  women  at  a  funeral  hath  in  it  little  real- 
ity of  grief:  yet  it  penetrates  to  the  soul  of  those  who  hear 
it.  As  each  new  guest  arrived,  the  wail  was  raised  anew: 
the  louder  in  proportion  to  the  rank  of  the  arrival,  in  so 
much  that  when  the  Lord  Mayor  himself  walked  up  the 
stairs  the  lament  became  a  shriek. 

The  undertaker  whispered  in  my  ear  that  all  were  present. 

I  looked  about  me.   'Twas  not  in  human  nature  to  avoid 


56  The  Orange  Girl 

a  sense  of  honour  and  glory  in  looking  upon  so  honourable 
a  company.  They  proclaimed  by  their  presence  the  respect 
with  which  they  regarded  my  father.  Here,  beside  our 
cousins,  were  the  Lord  Mayor  and  Aldermen,  the  Sheriffs, 
the  Town  Clerk,  the  Recorder,  the  Common  Sergeant,  the 
Remembrancer,  the  Dean  of  St.  Paul's,  the  Master  and  War- 
dens of  his  Company  and  many  of  the  greatest  merchants 
on  Change.  They  were  there  to  do  honour  to  my  father's 
memory,  and  I  was  there  to  receive  them,  as  my  father's 
son,  despite  the  respect  in  which  I  had  failed. 

It  was  not  a  time,  however,  for  regrets. 

I  lifted  the  great  cup,  I  say,  and  looked  around.  The 
wailing  ceased.  All  eyes  were  turned  to  me  as  I  drank 
from  the  cup — it  was  hypocras,  a  drink  much  loved  at  City 
feasts.  Then  I  handed  it  to  Alice,  who  drank  and  gave  it 
back  to  me.  Then  to  my  uncle  the  Alderman,  after  whom 
it  went  round.  Down  below,  in  the  hall,  there  was  the  sol- 
emn drinking  of  wine.  We  drank  thus  to  the  memory  of 
the  dead :  in  old  times,  I  am  assured,  the  mourners  drank  to 
the  repose  of  the  soul  just  gone  out  of  the  body.  For  mem- 
ory or  for  repose,  it  is  an  old  custom  which  one  would  not 
willingly  neglect. 

After  the  ceremony  the  ladies  began  once  more  their  wail- 
ing and  groaning.  They  make  too  much  of  this  custom. 
It  is  not  in  reason  that  girls  like  my  cousins  Amelia  and 
Sophia  should  be  so  torn  and  lacerated  by  grief  as  their 
wails  betokened.  Indeed,  I  saw  them  after  the  funeral  talk- 
ing and  laughing  as  they  went  away. 

We  then  descended  the  stairs  and  waited  below  while  the 
men  went  up  to  finish  their  work  and  to  shut  out  the  face 
of  the  dead  man  for  ever  from  the  world. 

They  brought  out  the  coffin.  The  housekeeper  with  one 
last  wail  of  grief — one  hopes  there  was  some  sincerity  in  it 
— locked  the  door  of  the  death  chamber :  she  locked  it  nois- 
ily, so  that  all  might  hear:  she  turned  the  handle  loudly  so 
that  all  might  be  sure  that  the  door  was  shut:  she  had 
before  put  out  the  wax  candles :  out  of  respect  for  the  late 
occupant  the  room  would  not  be  opened  or  used  again  for 
years :  it  would  remain  as  it  was  with  the  black  velvet  hang- 
ings and  the  silver  sconces.  This  is  one  of  the  privileges 
accorded  to  wealth — an  empty  honour,  but  one  that  is  en- 
vied by  those  who  cannot  afford  to  spare  a  room.  What 
can  the  dead  man  know  or  feel  or  care  while  the  black  velvet 


How  I  Got  Into  the  King's  Bench        57 

grows  brown  and  shabby,  and  the  silver  sconces  become  yel- 
low, and  the  sunbeams  through  the  shutters  slowly  steal 
round  the  room,  and  except  for  the  dancing  of  the  motes  in 
the  sunlight  there  is  no  motion  or  sound  or  touch  of  life 
or  light  in  the  solitude  and  silence  of  the  chamber?  It  is 
giving  Death  to  Death — not  the  Life  for  which  we  pray,  for 
which  we  hope  and  trust. 

The  pall  was  of  velvet  with  a  gold  fringe  and  gold  em- 
broidery. I  knew  it  for  the  parish  pall  bequeathed  by  some 
pious  person  for  the  use  of  parishioners.  When  all  was 
ready  the  undertaker  marshalled  the  procession.  First 
marched  two  conductors  with  staves  and  plumes:  then  fol- 
lowed six  men  in  long  black  coats,  two  and  two ;  then  one 
bearing  the  Standard,  with  black  plumes:  then,  eighteen 
men  in  long  black  cloaks  as  before,  all  being  servants  to  the 
Deceased:  then  the  Minister  of  the  Parish:  after  him  an 
officer  of  Arms  carrying  a  knight's  sword  and  target,  helm 
and  crest:  with  him  another  officer  of  Arms  carrying  the 
shield,  both  in  their  tabards  or  embroidered  coats :  then  the 
Body,  the  pall  being  borne  by  six  Merchants  between  men 
carrying  the  Shields  of  the  City:  of  the  Company:  and  of 
Bridewell,  Christ's  Hospital,  St.  Bartholomew's  and  St. 
Thomas's,  of  which  the  Deceased  was  a  Governor.  Then 
I  followed  as  chief  mourner  with  my  wife:  after  me  the 
Alderman  my  uncle  and  his  lady.  Then  came  Matthew. 
With  him  should  have  walked  one  of  his  sisters :  but  there 
stepped  out  of  the  crowd  a  woman  in  black  holding  a  hand- 
kerchief to  her  face.  Who  she  was  I  knew  not.  After 
them  came  the  rest  of  the  cousins.  Then  followed  the  Lord 
Mayor  and  the  City  Fathers ;  and,  lastly,  the  clerks,  porters, 
stevedores,  bargemen,  and  others  in  the  service  of  the 
House.  In  our  hands  we  carried,  as  we  went,  lighted 
torches :  a  considerable  number  of  people  came  out  to  'see  the 
funeral:  they  lined  the  street  which  by  the  flames  of  the 
torches  was  lit  up  as  if  by  daylight.  The  faces  at  the  win- 
dows :  the  crowds  in  the  street :  the  length  of  the  procession 
filled  my  soul  with  pride,  though  well  I  knew  that  I  was 
but  a  castaway  from  the  affections  of  the  dead  man  whom 
these  people  honoured. 

The  procession  had  not  far  to  go :  the  parish  church,  that 
of  St.  Michael  Paternoster  Royal,  is  but  a  short  distance 
down  the  street:  it  is  the  church  in  which  Whittington  was 
buried,  his  tomb  and  his  ashes  being  destroyed  in  the  Great 


58  The  Orange  Girl 

Fire  a  hundred  years  ago.  The  Church,  like  the  house,  was 
hung  with  black  and  lit  by  wax  candles  and  our  torches. 
The  Rector  read  the  service  with  a  solemnity  which,  I  be- 
lieve, affected  all  hearts.  After  the  reading  of  that  part 
which  belongs  to  the  Church  we  carried  the  body  to  the 
churchyard  at  the  back — a  very  small  churchyard :  there  we 
lowered  the  coffin  into  the  grave — I  observed  that  the  mould 
seemed  to  consist  entirely  of  skulls  and  bones — and  when 
dust  was  given  to  dust  and  ashes  to  ashes,  we  dashed  our 
torches  upon  the  ground  and  extinguished  the  flames.  Then 
in  darkness  we  separated  and  went  each  his  own  way.  I 
observed  that  the  lady  who  walked  with  Matthew  left  him 
when  the  ceremony  was  over.  The  weeping  of  the  women 
ceased  and  the  whispers  of  the  men :  everybody  talked  aloud 
and  cheerfully.  No  more  mourning  for  my  father:  pity 
and  regret  were  buried  in  the  grave  with  him:  they  became 
the  dust  and  ashes  which  were  strewed  upon  the  coffin.  He 
had  gone  hence  to  be  no  more  seen :  to  be  no  more  wept  over. 
But,  as  you  shall  shortly  hear,  the  dead  man  still  retained 
in  his  hands  the  power  of  doing  good  or  evil. 

Matthew  spoke  to  me  as  we  left  the  Churchyard. 

'Cousin,'  he  said,  with  more  civility  than  I  expected,  'if 
you  can  come  to  the  counting-house  to-morrow  morning 
you  will  learn  your  father's  testamentary  dispositions.  The 
will  is  to  be  opened  and  read  at  ten  o'clock/ 


CHAPTER  VII 

THE  READING  OF  THE  WILL. 

will  make  him  sell  his  Reversionary  interest' — the  voice 
was  curiously  harsh  and  grating — 'and  you  will  then  be  able 
to  take  the  whole/ 

You  know  how,  sometimes,  one  hears  things  in  a  mys- 
terious way  which  one  could  not  hear  under  ordinary  cir- 
cumstances. I  was  standing  in  the  outer  counting-house 
in  the  room  assigned  to  the  accountants.  In  the  inner 
counting-house,  I  knew,  my  cousin  was  sitting.  Without 
being  told  any  thing  more,  I  guessed  that  the  voice  belonged 
to  the  tall  lean  man  who  was  present  at  the  funeral,  and  that 


How  I  Got  Into  the  King's  Bench        59 

he  was  addressing  Matthew,  and  that  he  was  talking  about 
me.  And,  without  any  reason,  I  assumed  a  mental  attitude 
of  caution.  They  were  going  to  make  me  sell  something, 
were  they? 

When  I  was  called  into  the  room  I  found  that  I  was  so  far 
right,  inasmuch  as  the  only  two  persons  in  the  room  were 
my  cousin  and  the  lean  man  who  by  his  black  dress  I  per- 
ceived to  be  an  attorney. 

Now,  I  daresay  that  there  are  attorneys  in  the  City  of 
London  whose  lives  are  as  holy  as  that  of  any  Bishop  or 
Divine.  At  the  same  time  it  is  a  matter  of  common  noto- 
riety that  the  City  contains  a  swarm  of  vermin — if  I  may 
speak  plainly — who  are  versed  in  every  kind  of  chicanery: 
who  know  how  to  catch  'hold  of  every  possible  objection: 
and  who  spend  the  whole  of  their  creeping  lives  in  wresting, 
twisting,  and  turning  the  letter  of  the  law  to  their  own  ad- 
vantage, under  the  pretense  of  advantage  to  their  clients. 
These  are  the  attorneys  who  suggest  and  encourage  disputes 
and  lawsuits  between  persons  who  would  otherwise  remain 
friends:  there  are  those  who  keep  cases  running  on  for 
years,  eating  up  the  estates :  when  they  fasten  upon  a  man, 
it  is  the  spider  fastening  on  a  big  fat  fly:  they  never  leave 
him  until  they  land  him  in  a  debtor's  prison,  naked  and  des- 
titute. I  have  observed  that  a  course  of  life,  such  as  that 
indicated  above,  presently  stamps  the  face  with  a  look  which 
cannot  be  mistaken:  the  eyes  draw  together:  the  mouth 
grows  straight  and  hard :  the  lips  become  thin :  the  nose  in- 
sensibly, even  if  it  be  originally  a  snub,  becomes  like 
the  beak  of  a  crow — the  creature  which  devours  the  offal  in 
the  street:  the  cheeks  are  no  longer  flesh  and  skin,  but 
wrinkled  parchment:  the  aspect  of  the  man  becomes,  in  a 
word,  such  as  that  of  the  man  who  sat  at  the  table,  a  bundle 
of  papers  before  him. 

I  knew,  I  say,  that  Mr.  Probus — which  was  his  name — 
was  an  attorney  at  the  outset.  His  black  coat:  his  wig:  his 
general  aspect:  left  no  doubt  upon  my  mind.  And  from 
the  outset  I  disliked  and  distrusted  the  man. 

The  last  time  I  had  entered  this  room  was  to  make  my 
choice  between  my  father  and  my  music.  The  memory  of 
the  dignified  figure  in  the  great  chair  behind  the  table:  his 
voice  of  austerity:  his  expectation  of  immediate  obedience 
made  my  eyes  dim  for  a  moment.  Not  for  long,  because 
one  would  not  show  any  tenderness  before  Matthew. 


60  The  Orange  Girl 

With  some  merchants  the  counting-house  is  furnished 
with  no  more  than  what  is  wanted:  in  this  wharf  it  was  a 
substantial  house  of  brick  in  which  certain  persons  slept 
every  night  for  the  better  security  of  the  strong-room  in  the 
cellars  below.  The  principal  room,  that  which  had  been  my 
father's,  had  two  windows  looking  out  upon  the  river:  the 
room  was  carpeted:  family  portraits  hung  upon  the  walls: 
the  furniture  was  solid  mahogany:  no  one  who  worked  in 
such  a  room  could  be  anything  but  a  substantial  merchant. 

My  cousin  looked  up  and  sulkily  pointed  to  a  chair. 

At  this  time  Matthew  Halliday  presented  the  appearance 
of  a  responsible  City  Merchant.  His  dress  was  sober  yet 
of  the  best :  nobody  had  whiter  ruffles  at  his  wrist  or  at  his 
shirt-front :  nobody  wore  a  neck-cloth  of  more  costly  lace : 
his  gold  buttons,  gold  buckles,  and  gold  laced  hat  pro- 
claimed him  an  independent  person:  he  carried  a  large  gold 
watch  and  a  gold  snuff-box :  he  wore  a  large  signet-ring  on 
his  right  thumb,  his  face  was  grave  beyond  his  years:  this 
morning  it  presented  an  appearance  which  in  lesser  men  is 
called  sulky.  I  knew  the  look  well,  from  old  experience. 
It  meant  that  something  had  gone  wrong.  All  my  life  long 
I  had  experienced  at  the  hands  of  this  cousin  an  animosity 
which  I  can  only  explain  by  supposing  a  resentment  against 
one  who  stood  between  himself  and  a  rich  man's  estate.  As  a 
boy — I  was  four  or  five  years  younger  than  himself — he 
would  take  from  me,  and  destroy,  things  I  cherished:  he 
invented  lies  and  brought  false  accusations  against  me;  he 
teased,  pinched,  bullied  me  when  no  one  was  looking.  When 
I  grew  big  enough  I  fought  him.  At  first  I  got  beaten :  but 
I  went  on  growing  and  presently  I  beat  him.  Then,  if  he  at- 
tempted any  more  false  accusations  he  knew  that  he  would 
have  to  fight  me  again;  a  consideration  which  made  him 
virtuous. 

"Cousin/  he  said  coldly,  'this  gentleman  is  Mr.  Probus, 
the  new  attorney  of  the  House.  Mr.  Littleton,  his  late  at- 
torney, is  dead.  Mr.  Probus  will  henceforth  conduct  our 
affairs/ 

'Unworthily/  said  Mr.  Probus. 

'That  is  my  concern/Matthew  replied  with  great  dignity. 
'I  hope  I  know  how  to  choose  and  to  appoint  my  agents.' 

'Sir' — Mr.  Probus  turned  to  me — 'it  has  ever  been  the 
business  of  my  life  to  study  the  good  of  my  fellow  man. 
My  motto  is  one  taken  from  an  ancient  source — you  will 


How  I  Got  Into  the  King's  Bench        61 

allow  one  of  the  learned  profession  to  have  some  tincture  of 
Latin.  The  words  are — ahem! — Integer  vitae  scelerisque 
Probus.  That  is  to  say:  Probus — Probus,  Attorney-at- 
Law;  vitae,  lived;  integer,  respected;  scelerisque,  and 
trusted.  Such,  Sir,  should  your  affairs  ever  require  the 
nice  conduct  of  one  who  is  both  guide  and  friend  to  his 
clients,  you  will  ever  find  me.  Now,  Mr.  Matthew,  Sir, 
my  honoured  patron,  I  await  your  commands/ 

'We  are  waiting,  cousin/  said  Matthew,  'for  my  father. 
As  soon  as  he  arrives  Mr.  Probus  will  read  the  Will.  The 
contents  are  known  to  me — in  general  terms — such  was  the 
confidence  reposed  in  me  by  my  honoured  uncle — in  general 
terms.  I  believe  you  will  find  that  any  expectations  you 
may  have  formed ' 

'Pardon  me,  Sir/  interrupted  the  attorney.  'Not  before 
the  reading  of  the  Will ' 

'Will  be  frustrated.  That  is  all  I  intended  to  say.  Of 
course  there  may  be  a  trifle.  Indeed  I  hope  there  may  prove 
to  be  some  trifling  legacy. 

'Perhaps  a  shilling.  Ha,  ha !'  The  attorney  looked  more 
forbidding  when  he  became  mirthful  than  when  he  was 
serious. 

Then  some  of  my  cousins  arrived  and  sat  down.  We 
waited  a  few  minutes  in  silence,  until  the  arrival  of  my  uncle 
the  Alderman  with  his  wife  and  daughters. 

The  ladies  stared  at  me  without  any  kind  of  salutation. 
The  Alderman  shook  his  head. 

'Nephew/  he  said,  'I  am  sorry  to  see  you  here.  I  fear 
you  will  go  away  with  a  sorrowful  heart ' 

'I  am  sorrowful  already,  because  my  father  was  not  rec- 
onciled to  me.  I  shall  not  be  any  the  more  sorrowful  to  find 
that  I  have  nothing.  It  is  what  I  expect.  Now,  sir,  you 
may  read  my  father's  will  as  soon  as  you  please.' 

In  spite  of  my  brave  words  I  confess  that,  for  Alice's  sake, 
I  did  hope  that  something  would  be  left  me. 

Then  all  took  chairs  and  sat  down  with  a  cough  of  expec- 
tation. There  was  no  more  wailing  from  the  ladies. 

Mr.  Probus  took  up  from  the  table  a  parchment  tied  with 
red  tape  and  sealed.  He  solemnly  opened  it. 

'This/  he  said,  'is  the  last  will  and  testament  of  Peter 
Halliday,  Knight,  and  Alderman,  late  Lord  Mayor,  Citizen 
and  Lorimer/ 

My   uncle   interposed.      'One   moment,    sir/     Then   he 


62  The  Orange  Girl 

turned  to  me.  '  Repentance,  nephew,  though  too  late  to 
change  a  parent's  testamentary  dispositions,  may  be  quick- 
ened by  the  consequences  of  a  parent's  resentment.  It  may 
therefore  be  the  means  of  leading  to  the  forgiveness — ahem 
— and  the  remission — ahem — of  more  painful  consequences 
— ahem — at  the  hands  of  Providence/ 

I  inclined  my  head.     'Now,  sir,  once  more/ 

This  will  was  made  four  years  ago  when  the  late  Mr. 
Littleton  was  the  deceased  gentleman's  attorney.  It  was 
opened  three  months  ago  in  order  to  add  a  trifling  codicil, 
which  was  entrusted  to  my  care.  I  will  now  read  the 
will/ 

There  is  no  such  cumbrous  and  verbose  document  in  the 
world  as  the  will  of  a  wealthy  man.  It  was  read  by  Mr. 
Probus  in  a  'harsh  voice  without  stops  in  a  sing-song, 
monotonous  delivery,  which  composed  the  senses  and  made 
one  feel  as  if  all  the  words  in  the  Dictionary  were  being 
read  aloud. 

At  last  he  finished. 

'Perhaps/  I  said,  'someone  will  tell  me  in  plain  English 
what  it  means?' 

Tlain  English,  Sir?  Let  me  tell  you/  Mr.  Probus  replied, 
'that  there  is  no  plainer  English  in  the  world  than  that 
employed  by  lawyers/ 

I  turned  to  my  uncle.  'Will  you,  Sir,  have  the  good- 
ness to  explain  to  me  ?' 

'I  cannot  recite  the  whole.  As  for  the  main  points — Mr. 
Probus  will  correct  me  if  I  am  wrong — my  lamented  brother 
leaves  bequests  to  found  an  almshotise  for  eight  poor  men 
and  eight  poor  widows,  to  bear  his  name ;  he  also  founds  at 
his  Parish  Church  an  annual  Lecture,  to  bear  his  name :  he 
establishes  a  New  Year's  dole,  to  bear  his  name,  of  coals 
and  bread,  for  twenty  widows  of  the  Parish.  He  has 
founded  a  school,  for  twelve  poor  boys,  to  bear  his  name. 
He  has  ordered  his  executors  to  effect  the  release  of  thirty 
poor  prisoners  for  debt,  in  his  name.  Is  there  more,  Mr. 
Probus?' 

'He  also  founds  a  scholarship  for  a  poor  and  deserving 
lad,  to  assist  him  at  Cambridge.  The  same  scholarship  to 
bear  his  name  and  to  be  in  the  gift  of  his  Company/ 

'What  does  he  say  about  me  ?' 

'I  am  coming  to  that/  Mr.  Probus  replied.  'He  devises 
many  bequests  to  his  nephews  and  nieces,  his  cousins  and 


How  I  Got  Into  the  King's  Bench        63 

his  personal  friends,  with  mourning  rings  to  all :  there  are, 
I  believe,  two  hundred  thus  honoured:  two  hundred — I 
think,  Mr.  Paul,  that  it  is  a  long  time  since  the  City  lost  one 
so  rich  and  so  richly  provided  with  friends.' 

'But  what  does  he  say  about  me  ?'  I  insisted. 

'Patience.  He  then  devises  the  whole  of  his  remaining 
estate:  all  his  houses,  investments,  shares,  stocks:  all  his 
furniture  and  plate :  to  his  nephew  Matthew/ 

'I  expected  it.     And  nothing  said  about  me  at  all.' 

'It  is  estimated  that  the  remainder,  after  deducting  the 
monies  already  disposed  of,  will  not  amount  to  more  than 
,£100,000,  because  there  is  a  reservation ' 

'Oh!' 

'It  is  provided  that  the  sum  of  £100,000  be  set  aside:  that 
it  be  placed  in  the  hands  of  trustees  whom  he  names — the 
Master  of  his  Company  and  the  Clerk  of  the  Company. 
This  money  is  to  accumulate  at  compound  interest  until  one 
of  two  events  shall  happen — either  the  death  of  his  son, 
in  which  case  Mr.  Matthew  will  have  it  all :  or  the  death  of 
Mr.  Matthew,  in  which  case  the  son  is  to  have  it  all.  In 
other  words,  this  vast  sum  of  money  with  accumulations  will 
go  to  the  survivor  of  the  two/ 

I  received  this  intelligence  in  silence.  At  first  I  could 
not  understand  what  it  meant. 

'I  think,  Sir/  Mr.  Probus  addressed  the  Alderman,  'we 
have  now  set  forth  the  terms  of  this  most  important  docu- 
ment in  plain  language.  We  ought  perhaps  to  warn  Mr. 
William  against  building  any  hopes  upon  the  very  slender 
chance  of  succeeding  to  this  money.  We  have  here' — he 
indicated  Matthew — 'health,  strength,  an  abstemious  life: 
on  the  other  hand  we  have' — he  indicated  me — 'what  we 
see/ 

I  laughed.  At  all  events  I  was  a  more  healthy  subject,  to 
look  at,  than  my  cousin,  who  this  morning  looked  yellow  in- 
stead of  pale. 

'The  span  of  life/  the  attorney  went  on,  'accorded  to  my 
justly  esteemed  client,  will  probably  be  that  usually  assigned 
to  those  who  honour  their  parents — say  eighty,  or  even 
ninety.  You,  sir,  will  probably  be  cut  off  at  forty.  I  be- 
lieve that  it  is  the  common  lot  in  your  class.  Above  all 
things,  do  not  build  upon  the  chances  of  this  reversion/ 

Suddenly  the  words  I  had  heard  came  back  to  me.    What 


64  The  Orange  Girl 

were  they?     We  will  make  him  sell  his  reversion/     'Sell 
his  reversion.'     Then  the  reversion  must  not  be  sold. 

Mr.  Probus  went  on  too  long.  You  may  destroy  the 
effect  of  your  words  by  too  much  repetition. 

'A  shadowy  chance/  he  said,  'a  shadowy  chance/ 

'I  don't  know.  Why  should  not  my  cousin  die  before  me  ? 
Besides,  it  means  that  my  father  in  cutting  me  off  would 
leave  a  door  for  restitution/ 

'Only  an  imaginary  door,  sir — not  a  real  door/ 

'A  very  real  door.  I  shall  live  as  long  as  I  can.  My 
cousin  will  do  as  he  pleases.  Mr.  Probus,  the  "shadowy 
chance,"  as  you  call  it,  is  a  chance  that  is  worth  a  large 
sum  of  money  if  I  would  sell  my  reversion/  Mr.  Probus 
started  and  looked  suspicious.  'But  I  shall  not  sell  it.  I 
shall  wait.  Matthew  might  die  to-morrow — to-day,  even — ' 

'Fie,  Sir — oh,  fie! — to  desire  the  death  of  your  cousin! 
This  indeed  betokens  a  bad  heart — a  bad  heart.  How 
dreadful  is  the  passion  of  envy!  How  soul-destroying  is 
the  thirst  for  gold !' 

I  rose.     I  knew  the  worst. 

'Do  not/  Mr.  Probus  went  on,  'give,  I  entreat  you,  one 
thought  to  the  thing.  Before  your  cousin's  life  lies  stretched 
what  I  may  call  a  charming  landskip  with  daisies  in  the 
grass,  and — and — the  pretty  warblers  of  the  grove.  It  is  a 
life,  I  see  very  plainly,  full  of  goodness,  which  is  Heavenly 
Wealth,  stored  up  for  future  use ;  and  of  success  on  Change, 
which  is  worldly  wealth.  Happy  is  the  City  which  owns  the 
possessor  of  both !' 

*•  The  moralist  ceased  and  began  to  tie  up  his  papers. 
When  his  strident  voice  dropped,  the  air  became  musical 
again,  so  to  speak.  However,  the  harsh  voice  suited  the 
sham  piety. 

'Cousin  Matthew/  I  rose,  since  there  was  nothing  to  keep 
me  longer.  'Could  I  remember,  in  your  seven-and-twenty 
years  of  life,  one  single  generous  act  or  one  single  worthy 
sentiment,  then  I  could  believe  this  fustian  about  the  length 
of  days  and  the  Heavenly  Wealth.  Live  as  long  as  you 
can.  I  desire  never  to  see  you  again,  and  never  to  hear  from 
you  again.  Go  your  own  way,  and  leave  me  to  go  mine/ 

The  whole  company  rose:  they  parted  right  and  left  to 
let  me  pass:  as  the  saying  is,  they  gave  me  the  cold  shoul- 
der with  a  wonderful  unanimity.  There  was  a  common  con- 
sent among  them  that  the  man  who  had  become  a  fiddler  had 


I    PASSED    THROUGH    THEM    ALL. 


How  I  Got  Into  the  King's  Bench        65 

disgraced  the  family.  As  for  Matthew,  he  made  no  reply 
even  with  looks.  He  did  not,  however,  present  the  appear- 
ance of  joy  at  this  great  accession  to  wealth.  Something 
was  on  his  mind  that  troubled  him. 

My  uncle  the  Alderman  spoke  for  the  family. 

'Nephew/  he  said,  'believe  me,  it  is  with  great  sorrow 
that  we  see  thee  thus  cast  out:  yet  we  cannot  but  believe 
the  acts  of  my  brother  to  be  righteous.  I  rejoice  not  that 
my  son  has  taken  thine  inheritance.  I  lament  that  thou 
hast  justly  been  deprived.  The  will  cuts  thee  off  from 
the  family/  He  looked  round.  A  murmur  of  approval 
greeted  him.  A  disinherited  son  who  is  also  a  fiddler  by 
profession  cannot  be  said  to  belong  to  a  respectable  City 
family.  'We  wish  thee  well — in  thy  lower  sphere — among 
thy  humble  companions.  Farewell/  I  passed  through 
them  all  with  as  much  dignity  as  I  could  assume.  'Alas !'  I 
heard  him  saying  as  I  stepped  out.  'Alas!  that  cousins 
should  so  differ  from  each  other  in  grain — in  grain !' 

His  daughters,  my  dear  cousins,  turned  up  their  noses, 
coughed  and  flattened  themselves  against  the  wall  so  that 
I  should  not  touch  so  much  as  a  hoop — and  I  saw  these 
affectionate  creatures  no  more,  until — many  things  had  hap- 
pened. 


CHAPTER  VIII 

THE  TEMPTATION 

ONE  morning,  about  six  weeks  after  the  funeral,  I  was 
sitting  at  the  harpsichord,  picking  out  an  anthem  of  my  own 
composition.  The  theme  was  one  of  thanksgiving  and  praise, 
and  my  heart  was  lifted  to  the  level  of  the  words.  All 
around  was  peace  and  tranquillity:  on  the  river  bank  out- 
side Alice  walked  up  and  down  carrying  our  child,  now 
nearly  a  year  and  a  half  old :  the  boy  crowed  and  laughed : 
the  mother  would  have  been  singing,  but  she  would  not 
disturb  me  at  work.  Can  mortal  man  desire  greater  happi- 
ness than  to  'have  the  work  of  his  own  choice;  the  wife 
who  is  to  him  the  only  woman  in  the  world :  a  strong  and 
lovely  child :  and  a  sufficiency  earned  by  his  own  work?  As; 
for  my  chance  of  ever  getting  that  huge  fortune  by  my  cou- 


66  The  Orange  Girl 

sin's  death,  I  can  safely  aver  that  I  never  so  much  as  thought 
of  it.  We  never  spoke  of  it:  we  put  it  out  of  our  minds 
altogether. 

I  heard  steps  outside :  steps  which  disturbed  me :  I  turned 
my  head.  It  was  Mr.  Probus  the  attorney.  He  stood  hat 
in  hand  before  Alice. 

'Mr.  William's  wife  I  believe/  he  was  saying.  'And  his 
child?  A  lovely  boy  indeed,  Madam.  I  bring  you  news — 
nothing  less  in  short  than  a  fortune — a  fortune — for  this 
lovely  boy.' 

'Indeed,  Sir  ?    Are  you  a  friend  of  my  husband  ?' 

'A  better  friend,  I  warrant,  Madam,  than  many  who  call 
him  friend/ 

'He  is  within,  Sir.     Will  you  honour  our  poor  cottage  ?' 

He  stood  in  the  open  door. 

'Mr.  Will,'  he  said,  'I  have  your  permission  to. enter?' 

At  sight  of  him  the  whole  of  the  anthem  vanished:  har- 
mony, melody,  solo,  chorus.  It  was  as  if  someone  was  sing- 
ing false :  as  if  all  were  singing  false.  I  put  down  my  pen. 
'Sir/  I  said,  'I  know  not  if  there  is  any  business  of  mine 
which  can  concern  you.' 

'Dear  Sir/  he  tried  to  make  his  grating  voice  mellifluous : 
he  tried  to  smile  pleasantly.  'Do  not,  pray,  treat  me  as  if  I 
was  an  adviser  of  the  will  by  which  your  father  deprived 
you  of  your  inheritance.' 

'I  do  not  say  that  you  were.  Nevertheless,  I  cannot  un- 
derstand what  business  you  have  with  me.' 

'I  come  from  your  cousin.  You  have  never,  I  fear,  re- 
garded your  cousin  with  kindly  feelings' — this  was  indeed 
reversing  the  position — 'but  of  that  we  will  not  speak.  I 
come  at  the  present  moment  as  a  messenger  of  peace — a  mes- 
senger of  peace.  There  is  Scripture  in  praise  of  the  messen- 
ger of  peace.  I  forget  it  at  the  moment :  but  you  will  know 
it.  Your  good  lady  will  certainly  know  it.'  Alice,  who  had 
followed  him,  placed  a  chair  for  him  and  stood  beside  him. 
'I  bear  the  olive-branch  like  the  turtle-dove/  he  continued, 
smiling.  'I  bring  you  good  tidings  of  peace  and  wealth. 
They  should  go  together,  wealth  and  peace.' 

'Pray,  Sir,  proceed  with  your  good  tidings.' 

Alice  laid  her  hand  on  my  shoulder.  'Husband/  she  said, 
'it  would  be  no  good  tidings  which  would  deprive  us  of  the 
happiness  which  we  now  enjoy.  Think  well  before  you  agree 
to  anything  that  this  gentleman,  or  your  cousin,  may  offer/ 


How  I  Got  Into  the  King's  Bench       67 

So  she  left  us,  and  carried  the  boy  out  again  into  the  fresh 
air. 

'Now,  Sir,  we  are  alone/ 

He  looked  about  him  curiously.  'A  pretty  room,'  he  said, 
'but  small.  One  would  take  it  for  the  cottage  of  a  fisher- 
man. I  believe  there  are  some  of  these  people  in  the  neigh- 
bourhood. The  prospect  either  over  the  river  or  over  the 
marsh  is  agreeable:  the  trees  are  pleasant  in  the  summer. 
The  Dog  and  Duck,  which  is,  I  believe,  easily  accessible,  is 
a  cheerful  place,  and  the  company  is  polite  and  refined,  espe- 
cially that  of  the  ladies.  No  one,  however,  would  think  that 
a  son  of  the  great  Sir  Peter  Halliday,  ex-Lord  Mayor  and 
Alderman,  West  India  Merchant,  was  living  in  this  humble 
place/ 

'Your  good  tidings,  Sir?' 

'At  the  same  time  the  position  has  its  drawbacks.  You 
are  almost  within  the  Rules.  And  though  not  yourself  a 
prisoner,  you  are  in  the  company  of  prisoners/ 

'Again,  Sir,  your  good  tidings  ?' 

'I  come  to  them.  Scelerisque  Probus  is  my  motto. 
Probus,  attorney  at  law,  trusted  by  all.  Now,  Sir,  you  shall 
hear  what  your  cousin  proposes.  Listen  to  me  for  a  mo- 
ment. You  can  hardly  get  on,  I  imagine,  even  in  so  small 
a  way  as  this  appears  to  be,  under  fifty  pounds  a  year/ 

'It  would  be  difficult/ 

'And  in  your  profession,  improperly  hard  and  unjustly 
despised,  it  is  difficult,  I  believe,  to  make  much  more/ 

'It  is  difficult  to  make  much  more/ 

'Ha!  As  your  cousin  said:  "They  must  be  pinched — 
this  unfortunate  couple — pinched  at  times."  ' 

'Did  my  cousin  say  that?' 

'Assuredly.  He  was  thinking  especially  of  your  good 
lady,  whom  he  remarked  at  the  funeral.  Well,  your  cousin 
will  change  all  tot.  A  heart  of  gold,  Mr.  William,  all 
pure  gold' — I  coughed,  doubtfully — 'concealed,  I  admit,  by 
a  reserved  nature  which  often  goes  with  our  best  and  most 
truly  pious  men,  especially  in  the  City  of  London.  I  do  as- 
sure you,  a  heart  of  gold/ 

He  played  his  part  badly.  His  cunning  eyes,  his  harsh 
voice,  the  words  of  praise  so  out  of  keeping  with  his 
appearance  and  manner — as  if  such  a  man  with  such  a  face 
could  be  in  sympathy  with  hearts  of  gold — struck  a  note  of 
warning.  Besides,  Matthew  with  a  heart  of  gold  ? 


68  The  Orange  Girl 

'Well,  Sir/  I  interrupted  him,  'what  have  you  come  to 
say?' 

'In  plain  words,  then,  this.  Mr.  Matthew  has  discovered 
a  way  of  serving  you.  Now,  my  dear  Sir,  I  pray  your  at- 
tention/ He  leaned  back  and  crossed  his  legs.  'Your 
father  showed  a  certain  relenting — a  disposition  to  consider 
you  as  still  a  member  of  the  family  by  that  provision  as 
to  survival  which  you  doubtless  remember/ 

'So  I  interpret  that  clause  in  the  will/ 

'And  with  this  view  has  put  you  in  as  the  possible  heir 
to  the  money  which  is  now  accumulating  in  the  hands  of 
trustees.  Mr.  Matthew,  now  a  partner  in  the  business,  will, 
it  is  assumed,  provide  for  his  heirs  out  of  the  business.  On 
his  death  your  father's  fortune  will  come  to  you  if  you  are 
living.  If  you  die  first  it  will  go  to  your  cousin.  In  the 
latter  event  there  will  be  no  question  of  your  son  getting 
aught/ 

'So  I  understand/ 

'Your  cousin,  therefore,  argues  in  this  way.  First,  he 
is  only  a  year  or  two  older  than  yourself :  next,  he  is  in  full 
possession  of  his  health  and  strength.  There  is  nothing  to 
prevent  his  living  to  eighty:  I  believe  a  great-grandmother 
of  his,  not  yours,  lived  to  ninety-six.  It  is  very  likely 
that  he  may  reach  as  great  an  age.  You  will  allow  that/ 

'Perhaps/ 

'Why  then,  we  are  agreed.  As  for  you,  musicians,  I  am 
told,  seldom  get  past  forty:  they  gradually  waste  away 
and — and  wither  like  the  blasted  sprig  in  July.  Oh!  you 
will  certainly  leave  this  world  at  forty — enviable  person! — 
would  that  I  could  have  done  so ! — you  will  exchange  your 
fiddle  for  a  harp — the  superior  instrument — and  your  three- 
cornered  hat  for  a  crown — the  external  sign  of  promotion — 
long  before  your  cousin  has  been  passed  the  Chair/ 

'All  this  is  very  likely,  Mr.  Probus.     Yet ' 

'I  am  coming  to  my  proposal.  What  Mr.  Matthew  says 
is  this.  "My  cousin  is  cut  out  of  the  will.  It  is  not  for  me 
to  dispute  my  uncle's  decision.  Still,  what  he  wants  just 
now  is  ready  money — a  supplement — a  supplement — to  what 
he  earns/' 

'Well?'  For  he  stopped  here  and  looked  about  the  room 
with  an  air  of  contempt. 

'A  pleasant  room/  he  said,  going  back,  'but  is  it  the  room 
which  your  father's  son  should  have  for  a  lodging?  Rush- 


How  I  Got  Into  the  King's  Bench       69 

bottomed  chairs:  no  carpet  .  .  .  dear  me,  Mr.  William, 
it  is  well  to  be  a  philosopher.  However,  we  shall  change  all 
that/ 

I  waited  for  him  to  go  on  without  further  interruption. 

'In  a  word,  Sir,  I  am  the  happy  ambassador — privileged 
if  ever  there  was  one — charged  to  bring  about  reconciliation 
and  cousinly  friendship/  Again  he  overdid  it.  'Your  cousin 
sent  me,  in  a  word,  to  propose  that  you  should  sell  him  your 
chances  of  inheritance.  That  is  why  I  am  here.  I  say,  Mr. 
William,  that  you  may  if  you  please  -sell  'him  your  chance  of 
the  inheritance.  He  proposes  to  offer  you  £3,000  down — 
£3,000,  I  say — the  enormous  sum  of  three — thousand — 
pounds — for  your  bare  chance  of  succeeding.  Well,  Sir? 
What  do  you  say  to  this  amazing,  this  astounding  piece  of 
generosity  ?' 

I  said  nothing.  Only  suddenly  there  returned  to  my  mind 
the  words  I  had  overheard  in  the  outer  counting-house. 

'We  will  make  him  sell  his  reversion/ 

What  connection  had  these  words  with  me?  There  was 
no  proof  of  any  connection :  no  proof  except  that  jumping  of 
the  wits  which  wants  no  proof. 

'With  £3,000,'  Mr.  Probus  continued,  'you  can  take  a 
more  convenient  residence  of  your  own — here,  or  elsewhere : 
near  the  Dog  and  Duck,  or  further  removed:  you  can  live 
where  you  please :  with  the  interest,  which  would  amount  to 
£150  a  year  at  least,  and  what  you  make  by  your  honest 
labour,  you  will  be,  for  one  of  your  profession,  rich.  It  will 
be  a  noble  inheritance  for  your  children.  Why,  Sir,  you  are 
a  made  man !' 

He  threw  himself  back  in  his  chair  and  puffed  his  cheeks 
with  the  satisfaction  that  naturally  follows  on  the  making  of 
a  man. 

I  was  tempted :  I  saw  before  me  a  life  of  comparative  ease : 
with  £150  a  year  there  would  be  little  or  no  anxiety  for  the 
future. 

Mr.  Probus  perceived  that  I  was  wavering.  He  pulled 
a  paper  out  of  his  pocket — he  slapped  it  on  the  table  and 
unrolled  it :  he  looked  about  for  ink  and  pen. 

'You  agree?'  he  asked  with  an  unholy  joy  lighting  up 
his  eyes.  'Why — there — I  knew  you  would !  I  told  Mr. 
Matthew  that  you  would.  Happy  man !  Three  thousand 
pounds !  And  all  your  own !  And  all  for  nothing !  Where 
is  the  ink?  Because,  Sir — I  can  be  your  witness — that 


70  The  Orange  Girl 

cousin  of  yours,  I  may  now  tell  you,  is  stronger  than  any 
bull — sign  here,  then,  Sir — here — he  will  live  for  ever.' 

His  eagerness,  which  he  could  not  conceal,  to  obtain  my 
signature  startled  me.  Again  I  remembered  the  words: 

'We  will  make  him  sell  his  reversion.' 

'Stop,  Mr.  Probus,'  I  said.     'Not  so  quick,  if  you  please.' 

'Not  so  quick !  Why,  dear  Sir,  you  have  acceded.  You 
have  acceded.  Where  is  the  ink?' 

'Not  at  all.' 

'If  you  would  like  better  terms  I  might  raise  it  another 
fifty  pounds.' 

'Not  even  another  fifty  will  persuade  me.' 

At  that  moment  I  heard  Alice  singing, 

'  The  Lord  my  pasture  shall  prepare, 
And  lead  me  with  a  shepherd's  care.' 

The  Lord — not  Mr.  Probus.  I  took  the  worcls  for  a 
warning. 

'We  shall  not  want  any  ink,'  I  said,  'nor  any  witness. 
Because  I  shall  not  sign.' 

'Not  sign?  Not  sign?  But  Mr.  William — Sir — surely 
— have  a  care — such  an  offer  is  not  made  every  day.  You 
will  never  again  receive  such  an  offer.' 

'Hark  ye,  Mr.  Probus.  By  that  clause  in  his  will  my 
father  signified  his  desire,  although  he  would  punish  me 
for  giving  up  the  City — to  show  that  he  was  not  impla- 
cable and  that  if  it  be  Heaven's  will  that  I  should  survive 
my  cousin  I  should  then  receive  his  forgiveness  and  once 
more  be  considered  as  one  of  the  family.  Sir,  I  will  not, 
for  any  offer  that  you  may  make,  act  against  my  father's 
wish.  I  am  to  wait,.  God  knows  I  desire  not  the  death  of 
my  cousin — I  wait:  it  is  my  father's  sentence  upon  me.  I 
shall  obey  my  father.  He  forgives  me  after  a  term  of 
years — long  or  short — I  know  not.  He  forgives  me  by  that 
clause.  I  am  not  cursed  with  my  father's  resentment.' 

'Oh !  He  talks  like  a  madman.  With  £3,000  waiting  for 
him  to  pick  up !' 

'I  repeat,  Sir.  In  this  matter  I  shall  leave  the  event  to 
Providence,  in  obedience  to  my  father's  wishes.  Inform 
my  cousin,  if  you  please,  of  my  resolution.' 

More  he  said,  because  he  was  one  of  those  tenacious  and 
obstinate  persons  who  will  not  take  'No,'  for  an  answer. 
Besides,  as  I  learned  afterwards,  he  was  most  deeply  con- 


How  I  Got  Into  the  King's  Bench        71 

cerned  in  the  success  of  his  mission.  He  passed  from  the 
stage  of  entreaty  to  that  of  remonstrance  and  finally  to  that 
of  wrath. 

'Sir/  he  said,  'I  perceive  that  you  are  one  of  those  crack- 
brained  and  conceited  persons  who  will  not  allow  anyone  to 
do  them  good :  you  throw  away  every  chance  that  offers,  you 
stand  in  your  own  light,  you  bring  ruin  upon  your  family/ 

'Very  well/  I  said,  'very  well  indeed/ 

'I  waste  my  words  upon  you/ 

'Why  then  waste  more  ?' 

'You  are  unworthy  of  the  name  you  bear.  You  are  only 
fit  for  the  beggarly  trade  you  follow.  Well,  Sir,  when 
misery  and  starvation  fall  upon  you  and  yours,  remember 
what  you  have  thrown  away/ 

I  laughed.  His  cunning  face  became  twisted  with  pas- 
sion. 

'Sir/  he  said,  'all  this  talk  is  beside  the  mark.  There  are 
ways.  Do  not  think  that  we  are  without  ways  and  means/ 
Then  he  swore  a  great  round  oath.  'We  shall  find  a  way, 
somehow,  to  bring  you  to  reason/ 

'Well  Mr.  Integer  Vitae  scelcrisque  Probus,'  I  said.  'If 
you  contemplate  rascality  you  will  have  to  change  your 
motto/ 

He  smoothed  out  his  face  instantly,  an'd  repressed  the 
outward  signs  of  wrath.  'Mr.  Will/  he  said,  'forgive  this 
burst  of  honest  indignation.  You  will  do,  of  course,  what 
you  think  fit.  Sir,  I  wish  you  a  return  to  better  sense.  I 
think  I  may  promise  you' — he  paused  and  clapped  his  fore- 
finger to  his  nose,  'I  am  sure  that  I  can  so  far  trespass  on  the 
forbearance  of  your  cousin  as  to  promise  that  this  offer  shall 
be  kept  open  for  three  weeks.  Any  day  within  the  next 
three  weeks  you  shall  find  at  my  office  the  paper  ready  for 
your  signature.  After  that  time  the  chance  will  be  gone — 
gone — gone  for  ever/  he  threw  the  chance  across  the  river 
with  a  theatrical  gesture  and  walked  away. 

What  did  it  mean?  Why  did  Matthew  want  to  buy  my 
share?  We  mfght  both  live  for  forty  years  or  even  more. 
Neither  could  touch  that  money  till  the  other's  death.  He 
might  desire  my  early  death  in  which  case  all  would  be  his. 
But  to  buy  my  share — it  meant  that  if  I  died  first  he  would 
have  paid  a  needless  sum  of  money  for  it :  and  that  if  he  died 
first  it  would  not  be  in  his  power  to  enjoy  that  wealth.  I 
asked  Ramage  on  the  Sunday  why  Matthew  wanted  it.  He 


72  The  Orange  Girl 

said  that  merchants  sometimes  desire  credit  and  that  perhaps 
it  would  strengthen  Matthew  if  it  were  known  that  this 
great  sum  of  money  would  be  added  to  his  estate  whenever 
either  his  cousin  or  he  himself  should  die.  And  with  this 
explanation  I  must  be  content.  There  was  another  possi- 
bility but  that  I  learned  afterwards. 

'We  will  make  him  sell  his  reversion.'  What  was  the 
meaning  of  those  words?  Perhaps  they  did  not  apply  to 
me.  But  I  was  sure  that  they  did.  Like  a  woman  I  was 
certain  that  they  did:  and  for  a  woman's  reason — which  is 
none. 


CHAPTER  IX 

THE  CLAIM  AND  THE  ARREST 

You  have  heard  how  my  old  friend  David  Camlet,  musical 
instrument  maker,  of  Dowgate  Street,  presented  me — or 
my  wife — on  our  marriage,  with  a  handsome  harpsichord. 
Shortly  after  my  father's  death,  this  good  old  gentleman 
also  went  the  way  of  all  flesh :  a  melancholy  event  which  I 
only  learned  by  receiving  a  letter  from  Mr.  Probus. 
Imagine,  if  you  can,  my  amazement  when  I  read  the  fol- 
lowing : 

'SiR, 

'I  have  to  call  your  immediate  attention  to  your  debt  of 
fifty-five  pounds  for  a  harpsichord  supplied  to  you  by  David 
Camlet  of  Dowgate  Street,  deceased.  I  shall  be  obliged  if 
you  will  without  delay  discharge  this  liability  to  me  as  attor- 
ney for  the  executors — 

'And  Remain  Sir, 

'Your  obedient  humble  Servant, 

'EZEKIEL  PROBUS/ 

'Why/  said  Alice.  'Mr.  Camlet  gave  us  the  instrument. 
It  was  a  free  gift/ 

'It  was.     If  Mr.  Probus  will  acknowledge  the  fact/ 

'Mr.  Probus?  Is  it  that  man  with  the  harsh  voice  who 
talked  lies  to  you?' 

'The  same.  And  much  I  fear,  wife,  that  he  means  no 
good  by  this  letter/ 


How  I  Got  Into  the  King's  Bench       73 

'But  Mr.  Camlet  gave  us  the  harpsichord/ 

Had  the  letter  been  received  from  any  other  person  I 
should  have  considered  it  as  of  no  importance;  but  the 
thought  that  it  came  from  Mr.  Probus  rilled  me  with  un- 
easiness. What  had  that  worthy  attorney  said  ?  'There  are 
ways — we  shall  find  a  way  to  bring  you  to  reason/ 

'My  dear/  said  Alice,  'since  we  have  had  the  instrument 
for  two  years  without  any  demand  for  payment,  we  ought 
to  be  safe.  Better  go  and  see  the  man/ 

It  was  with  very  little  hope  that  I  sallied  forth.  Not  only 
was  this  man  a  personal  enemy  but  he  was  an  attorney. 
What  must  be  the  true  nature  of  that  profession  which  so 
fills  the  world  \vith  shuddering  and  loathing?  Is  it,  one 
asks,  impossible  to  be  an  honest  attorney  ?  This  one,  at  all 
events,  was  as  great  a  villain  as  ever  walked.  They  are  a 
race  without  pity,  without  scruple,  without  turning  either 
to  the  right  or  to  the  left  when  they  are  in  pursuit  of  their 
prey.  They  are  like  the  weasel  who  singles  out  his  rabbit 
and  runs  it  down,  being  turned  neither  to  one  side  nor  the 
other.  Their  prey  is  always  money :  they  run  down  the  man 
who  has  money:  when  they  have  stripped  him  naked  they 
leave  him,  Whether  it  is  in  a  debtor's  prison  or  in  the  street : 
when  he  is  once  stripped  they  regard  him  no  longer.  Other 
men  take  revenge  for  human  motives,  for  wrongs  done  and 
endured:  these  men  know  neither  revenge  nor  wrath:  they 
do  not  complain  of  wrongs:  you  may  kick  them:  you  may 
cuff  them:  it  is  nothing:  they  want  your  money:  and  that 
they  will  have  by  one  way  or  another. 

I  took  boat  from  St.  Mary  Overies  stairs.  As  I  crossed 
the  river  a  dreadful  foreboding  of  evil  seized  me.  For  I 
perceived  suddenly  that,  somehow  or  other,  Mr.  Probus  was 
personally  interested  in  getting  me  to  sell  my  reversion. 
How  could  he  be  interested?  I  could  not  understand.  But 
he  was.  I  remembered  the  persuasion  of  his  manner:  his 
anxiety  to  get  my  signature:  his  sudden  manifestation  of 
disappointment  wrhen  I  refused.  Why  ?  Matthew  was  now 
a  partner  with  a  large  income  and  the  fortune  which  my 
father  left  him.  Matthew  had  no  expensive  tastes.  Why 
should  Mr.  Probus  be  interested  in  his  affairs  ? 

Next,  asked  the  silent  reasoner  in  my  brain,  what  will 
happen  when  you  declare  that  you  cannot  pay  this  debt? 
This  man  will  show  no  mercy.  You  will  be  arrested — you 
will  be  taken  to  Prison.  At  this  thought  I  shivered,  and  a 


74  The  Orange  Girl 

cold  trembling  seized  all  my  limbs.  'And  you  will  stay 
in  the  Prison  till  you  consent  to  sell  your  reversion.'  At 
which  I  resumed  my  firmness.  Never — never — would  I 
yield  whatever  an  accursed  attorney  might  say  or  do  to  me. 

Mr.  Probus  wrote  from  a  house  in  White  Hart  Street. 
It  is  a  small  street,  mostly  inhabited  by  poulterers,  which 
leads  from  Warwick  Lane  to  Newgate  market:  a  confined 
place  at  best :  with  the  rows  of  birds  dangling  on  the  hooks, 
not  always  of  the  sweetest,  and  the  smell  of  the  meat  market 
close  by  and  the  proximity  of  the  shambles,  it  is  a  dark  and 
noisome  place.  The  house,  which  had  a  silver  Pen  for  its 
sign,  was  narrow,  and  of  three  stories :  none  of  the  windows 
had  been  cleaned  for  a  long  time,  and  the  door  and  door- 
posts wanted  paint. 

As  I  stood  on  the  doorstep  the  words  again  came  back 
to  me,  'We  will  make  him  sell  his  reversionary  interest/ 

The  door  was  opened  by  an  old  man  much  bent  and 
bowed  with  years:  his  thin  legs,  his  thin  arms,  his  body — 
all  were  bent :  on  his  head  he  wore  a  small  scratch  wig :  he 
covered  his  eyes  with  his  hand  on  account  of  the  blinding 
light,  yet  the  court  was  darkened  by  the  height  of  the  houses 
above  and  the  dangling  birds  below. 

He  received  my  name  and  opened  the  door  of  the  front 
room.  I  observed  that  he  opened  it  a  very  little  way  and 
entered  sliding,  as  if  afraid  that  I  should  see  something. 
He  returned  immediately  and  beckoned  me  to  follow  him. 
He  led  the  way  into  a  small  room  at  the  back,  not  much 
bigger  than  a  cupboard,  which  had  for  furniture  a  high 
desk  and  a  high  stool  placed  at  a  window  so  begrimed  with 
dirt  that  nothing  could  be  seen  through  it. 

There  was  no  other  furniture.  The  old  man  climbed 
upon  his  stool  with  some  difficulty  and  took  up  his  pen.  He 
looked  very  old  and  shrivelled :  his  brown  coat  was  frayed : 
his  worsted  stockings  were  in  holes :  his  shoes  were  tied  with 
leather  instead  of  buckles :  there  was  no  show  of  shirt  either 
at  the  wrist  or  the  throat.  He  looked,  in  fact,  what  he  was, 
a  decayed  clerk  of  the  kind  with  which,  as  a  boy,  I  had  been 
quite  familiar.  It  is  a  miserable  calling,  only  redeemed 
from  despair — because  the  wages  are  never  mucfy  above  star- 
vation-point— by  the  chance  and  the  hope  of  winning  a  prize 
in  the  lottery.  No  clerk  is  ever  so  poor  that  he  cannot 
afford  at  least  a  sixteenth  share  in  this  annual  bid  for  for- 
tune. I  never  heard  that  any  clerk  within  my  knowledge 


How  I  Got  Into  the  King's  Bench       75 

had  ever  won  a  prize:  but  the  chance  was  theirs:  once  a 
year  the  chance  returns — a  chance  of  fortune  without  work 
or  desert. 

Presently  the  old  man  turned  round  and  whispered,  'I 
know  your  face.  I  have  seen  you  before — but  I  forget 
where.  Are  you  in  trade  ?  Have  you  got  a  shop  ?' 

'No.     I  have  no  shop/ 

'You  come  from  the  country?  No?  A  bankrupt,  per- 
haps? No?  Going  to  make  him  your  attorney?'  He 
shook  his  head  with  some  vehemence  and  pointed  to  the  door 
with  his  pen.  'Fly/  he  said.  'There  is  still  time/ 

'I  am  not  going  to  make  him  or  anyone  else  my  attorney/ 

'You  come  to  borrow  money  ?  If  so' — again  he  pointed  to 
the  door  with  the  feathery  end  of  the  quill.  'Fly !  There  is 
still  time/ 

'Then  you  owe  him  money.  Young  man — there  is  still 
time.  Buy  a  stone  at  the  pavior's — spend  your  last  penny 
upon  it ;  then  tie  it  round  your  neck  and  drop  into  the  river. 
Ah!  It  is  too  late — too  late — '  For  just  then  Mr.  Probus 
rang  a  bell.  'Follow  me,  Sir.  Follow  me.  Ah!  That 
paving  stone !' 

Mr.  Probus  sat  at  a  table  covered  with  papers.  He  did 
not  rise  when  I  appeared,  but  pointed  to  a  chair. 

'You  wish  to  see  me,  Mr.  William/  he  began.  'May 
I  ask  with  what  object?' 

'I  come  in  reply  to  your  letter,  Mr.  Probus/ 

'My  letter?  My  letter?'  He  pretended  to  have  forgotten 
the  letter.  'I  write  so  many,  and  sometimes — ay — ay — 
surely.  The  letter  about  the  trifling  debt  due  to  the  estate 
of  David  Camlet  Deceased.  Yes — yes,  I  am  administering 
the  worthy  man's  estate.  One  of  many — very  many — who 
have  honoured  me  with  their  confidence/ 

'That  letter,  Mr.  Probus,  is  the  reason  why  I  have 
called/ 

'You  are  come  to  discharge  your  obligation.  It  is  what 
I  expected.  You  are  not  looking  well,  Mr.  William.  I  am 
sorry  to  observe  marks — are  they  of  privation? — on  your 
face.  Our  worthy  cousin,  on  the  other  hand,  has  a  frame  of 
iron.  He  will  live,  I  verily  believe,  to  ninety/ 

'Never  mind  my  cousin,  Mr.  Probus.  He  will  live  as  long 
as  the  Lord  permits/ 

'When  last  I  saw  you  Sir,  you  foolishly  rejected  a  most 
liberal  offer.  Well:  youth  is  ignorant.  We  live  and  learn. 


76  The  Orange  Girl 

Some  day,  too  late,  you  will  be  sorry.  Now,  Sir,  for  this 
debt.  Fifty-five  pounds.  Ay.  Fifty-five  pounds.  And 
my  costs,  which  are  trifling.' 

'I  have  come  to  tell  you,  Mr.  Probus,  that  your  letter  was 
written  under  a  misapprehension.' 

'Truly?  Under  a  misapprehension?  Of  what  kind, 
pray  ?' 

'The  harpsichord  was  a  gift  made  by  Mr.  David  Camlet. 
I  did  not  buy  it.' 

Mr.  Probus  lifted  his  eyebrows.  'A  gift?  Really? 
You  have  proof,  no  doubt,  of  this  assertion?' 

'Certainly.' 

'Well,  produce  your  proofs.  If  you  have  proofs,  as  you 
say,  I  shall  be  the  first  to  withdraw  my  client's  claim.  But 
makers  of  musical  instruments  do  not  usually  give  away  their 
wares.  What  are  your  proofs,  Sir?' 

'My  word,  first.' 

'Ta — ta — ta.  Your  word.  By  such  proof  every  debtor 
would  clear  himself.  What  next?' 

'The  word  of  my  wife  who  with  me  received  the  instru- 
ment from  Mr.  Camlet/ 

'Receiving  the  instrument  does  not  clear  you  of  liability — 
what  else  ?' 

'The  fact  that  Mr.  Camlet  never  asked  me  for  the 
money.' 

'An  oversight.  Had  he,  in  a  word,  intended  the  instru- 
ment for  a  gift,  he  would  have  said  so.  Now,  Sir,  what 
other  proofs  have  you  ?' 

I  was  silent.     I  had  no  other  proof. 

He  turned  again  to  the  book  he  had  before  consulted.  It 
was  the  ledger,  and  there,  in  Mr.  Camlet's  own  handwriting, 
firm  and  square,  was  an  entry : 

'To  Will  Halliday— a  Harpsichord,  £55. 

In  another  book  was  an  entry  to  the  office  that  the  instru- 
ment had  been  delivered. 

Of  course,  I  understand  now  what  the  old  man  meant  by 
the  entry.  He  wanted  to  note  the  gift  and  the  value:  and 
unfortunately  he  entered  it  as  if  it  was  a  business  transac- 
tion. 

'Well,  Sir?'  asked  Mr.  Probus. 

I  said  nothing.  My  heart  felt  as  heavy  as  lead.  I  was 
indeed  in  the  power  of  this  man. 

'There   are    such   things    as    conspiracy/    he    went    on, 


How  I  Got  Into  the  King's  Bench       77 

severely.  'You  have  told  me,  for  instance,  that  you  and  your 
wife  are  prepared  to  swear  that  the  instrument  was  a  gift. 
I  might  have  indicted  you  both  for  a  conspiracy,  in  which 
case  Tyburn  would  have  been  your  lot.  For  the  sake  of 
your  excellent  cousin  and  the  worthy  Mr.  Peter,  your  uncle, 
Sir,  I  refrain  from  the  indictment,  though  I  fear  I  might  be 
charged  with  compounding  a  felony.  But  mercy  before  all 
things :  charity,  mercy,  and  long  suffering.  These  are  the 
things  that  chiefly  nourish  the  human  soul,  not  guineas/ 

I  remained  still  silent,  not  knowing  what  to  do  or  to  say, 
and  seeing  this  abyss  yawning  before  me. 

'Come  Sir/  he  said  with  changed  voice,  "you  owe  fifty 
pounds  and  costs.  If  it  were  to  myself  I  would  give  you 
time :  I  would  treat  you  tenderly :  but  an  Attorney  must  pro- 
tect his  clients.  Therefore  I  must  have  that  money  at  once/ 

'Give  me  time  to  consult  my  friends/  Alas!  All  my 
friends  could  not  raise  fifty  pounds  between  them. 

'You  have  none.  You  have  lost  your  friends.  Pay  me 
fifty  pounds  and  costs/ 

'Let  me  see  the  executors.  Perhaps  they  will  hear  rea- 
son/ 

'For  what  purpose?  They  must  have  their  own.  The 
long  and  the  short  of  it,  Mr.  William  Halliday,  is  that  you 
must  pay  me  this  money/ 

'Man !  I  have  not  got  so  much  money  in  the  world/ 

He  smiled — he  could  not  disguise  his  satisfaction. 

'Then,  Mr.  William  Halliday' — he  shut  the  ledger  with  a 
slam — 'I  fear  that  my  clients  must  adopt — most  unwillingly, 
I  am  sure — the  measures  sanctioned  by  the  law/  His  eyes 
gleamed  with  a  malicious  satisfaction.  'I  only  trust  that 
the  steps  we  shall  have  to  take  will  not  disturb  the  mind 
of  my  much-respected  client,  your  cousin.  You  will  have  to 
choose  your  prison,  and  you  will  remain  in  the — the  Paradise 
of  your  choice  until  this  money,  with  costs,  is  paid.  As  for 
your  choice,  the  situation  of  the  Fleet  is  more  central :  that 
of  the  Bench  is  more  rural:  beyond  the  new  Prison  there 
are  green  fields.  The  smell  of  the  hay  perhaps  comes  over 
the  wall.  Should  you  find  a  lengthened  residence  necessary, 
I  believe  that  the  rooms,  though  small,  are  comfortable. 
Ah !  how  useful  would  have  been  that  three  thousand  pounds 
which  you  refused — at  such  a  juncture  as  this/ 

'If  there  is  nothing  more  to  be  said '     I  got  up,  not 


78  The  Orange  Girl 

knowing  what  I  said,  and  bewildered  with  the  prospect  be- 
fore me. 

'Heaven  forbid,  Sir/  he  continued  sweetly,  'that  I  should 
press  you  unduly.  I  will  even,  considering  the  tender  heart 
of  your  cousin,  extend  to  you  the  term.  I  will  grant  you 
twenty-four  hours  in  which  to  find  the  money/ 

'You  may  as  well  give  me  five  minutes.  I  have  no 
means  of  raising  the  sum/ 

'I  am  sorry  to  hear  that  for  the  sake  of  my  clients.  How- 
ever, I  can  only  hope' — he  pushed  back  the  papers  and  rose 
with  a  horrible  grin  of  malice  on  his  face — 'that  you  will  find 
the  air  of  the  Prison  salubrious.  There  have  been  cases  of 
infectious  fever — gaol  fever,  lately:  perhaps  the  King's 
Bench  and  the  Fleet  are  equal  in  this  respect.  Small-pox, 
also,  is  prevalent  in  one :  but  I  forget  which.  Many 
persons  live  for  years  in  a  Prison.  I  hope,  I  am  sure,  that 
you  will  pass — many — many — happy  years  in  that  seclu- 
sion/ 

I  listened  to  none  of  this  ill-omened  croaking,  but  hastened 
to  leave  him.  At  the  door  I  passed  the  old  clerk. 

'Go  to  the  King's  Bench/  he  whispered.  'Not  to  the  Fleet 
where  he'll  call  every  day  to  learn  whether  you  are  dead. 
There  is  still  time/  he  pointed  to  his  throat  while  he  noisily 
opened  the  door.  'Round  the  neck.  At  the  bottom  of  the 
River:  the  lying  is  more  comfortable  than  in  the  King's 
Bench/ 

I  had  entered  the  house  with  very  little  hope.  I  left  it 
with  despair.  I  walked  home  as  one  in  a  dream,  running 
against  people,  seeing  nothing,  hearing  nothing.  When  I 
reached  home  I  sat  down  in  a  kind  of  stupor. 

'My  dear/  I  said,  presently  recovering,  'we  are  lost — we 
are  ruined.  I  shall  starve  in  a  Prison.  Thou  wilt  beg  thy 
bread.  The  boy  will  be  a  gutter  brat/ 

Tell  me/  Alice  took  my  hand.  'Oh!  tell  me  all— my 
dear.  Can  we  be  lost  if  we  are  together  ?' 

'We  shall  not  be  together.  To-morrow  I  shall  be  in  the 
Prison.  For  how  long  God  only  knows/ 

'Since  He  knows,  my  dear,  keep  up  your  heart.  When 
was  the  righteous  man  forsaken  ?  Come,  let  us  talk.  There 
may  be  some  means  found.  If  we  were  to  pay — though  we 
owe  nothing — so  much  a  week/ 

'Alice,  it  is  not  the  debt.  There  is  no  debt.  It  is  revenge, 
and  the  hope ' 


How  I  Got  Into  the  King's  Bench       79 

I  did  not  finish — what  I  would  have  added  was,  'The  hope 
that  I  may  die  of  gaol  fever  or  something.'  'My  dear,  be 
brave  and  let  us  arrange.  First,  I  lose  my  situation  in  the 
Church  and  at  the  Gardens.  Next,  we  must  provide  for  the 
child  and  for  thyself  outside  the  prison.  No,  my  dear,  if 
the  Lord  permits  us  to  live  any  other  way  the  child  shall  not 
be  brought  up  a  prison  bird/ 


CHAPTER  X 

THE  ARREST 

IN  this  distress  I  again  consulted  Tom,  who  knew  already 
the  whole  case. 

'In  my  opinion,  Will/  he  said,  'the  best  thing  for  you  is 
to  run  away.  Let  Alice  and  the  boy  come  here.  Run 
away/ 

'Whither  could  I  run?' 

'Go  for  a  few  days  into  hiding.  They  will  come  here 
in  search  of  you.  Cross  the  river — seek  a  lodging  some- 
where about  Aldgate,  which  is  on  the  other  side  of  the  river. 
They  will  not  look  for  you  there.  Meantime  I  shall  inquire 
— Oh !  I  shall  hear  of  something  to  carry  on  with  for  a  time. 
You  might  travel  with  a  snow.  Probus  does  not  go  to 
country  fairs.  Or  you  might  go  to  Dublin  or  to  York,  or  to 
Bath,  and  play  in  the  orchestra  of  the  theatre.  We  will  set- 
tle for  you  afterwards — what  to  do.  Meantime  pack  thy 
things  and  take  boat  down  the  river/ 

This  seemed  good  advice.  I  promised  I  would  think  of 
it  and  perhaps  act  upon  it.  Some  might  think  it  cowardly 
to  run  away:  but  if  an  enemy  plays  dishonest  tricks  and 
underhand  practices,  there  is  no  better  way,  perhaps,  than  to 
run  away. 

Now  had  I  been  acquainted  with  these  tricks  I  should 
have  remained  where  I  was,  in  Tom's  house,  where  no 
sheriff's  officer  could  serve  me  with  a  writ.  I  should  have 
remained  there,  I  say,  until  midnight,  when  I  could  safely 
attempt  the  flight.  Unfortunately  I  thought  there  was  plenty 
of  time :  I  would  go  home  and  discuss  the  matter  with  Alice. 
I  left  the  house,  therefore,  and  proceeded  across  the  fields 


8o  The  Orange  Girl 

without  any  fear  or  suspicion.  As  I  approached  the  Bank, 
I  saw  two  fellows  waiting  about.  Still  I  had  no  suspicion, 
and  without  the  least  attempt  to  escape  or  to  avoid  them 
I  fell  into  the  clutches  of  my  enemy. 

'Mr.  William  Halliday?'  said  one  stepping  forward  and 
tapping  my  shoulder.  'You  are  my  prisoner,  Sir,  at  the 
suit  of  Mr.  Ezekiel  Probus,  for  the  debt  of  fifty-five  pounds 
and  costs/ 

As  I  made  no  resistance,  the  fellows  were  fairly  civil.  I 
was  to  be  taken,  it  appeared,  first  to  the  Borough  Compter. 
They  advised  me  to  leave  all  my  necessaries  behind  and  to 
have  them  sent  on  to  the  King's  Bench  as  soon  as  I  should 
be  removed  there. 

And  so  I  took  leave  of  my  poor  Alice  and  was  marched 
off  to  the  prison  where  they  take  debtors  first  before  they 
are  removed  to  the  larger  prison. 

The  Borough  Compter  is  surely  the  most  loathsome,  fetid, 
narrow  place  that  was  ever  used  for  a  prison.  Criminals 
and  Debtors  are  confined  together:  rogues  and  innocent 
girls:  the  most  depraved  and  the  most  virtuous:  there  is  a 
yard  for  exercise  which  is  only  about  twenty  feet  square  for 
fifty  prisoners:  at  night  the  men  are  turned  into  a  room 
where  they  have  to  lie  edgeways  for  want  of  space :  there  is 
no  ventilation,  and  the  air  in  the  morning  is  more  horrible 
than  I  can  describe.  My  heart  aches  when  I  think  of  the 
cruelty  of  that  place:  it  is  a  cruel  place,  because  no  one 
ever  visits  it,  no  righteous  Justice  of  the  Peace,  no  godly 
clergyman:  there  is  no  one  to  restrain  the  warder:  and  he 
goes  on  in  the  same  way,  not  because  he  is  cruel  by  nature, 
but  because  he  is  hardened  by  daily  use  and  custom. 

I  stayed  in  that  terrible  place  for  two  nights,  paying  dues 
and  garnish  most  exorbitant.  At  the  end  of  that  time  I  was 
informed  that  I  could  be  removed  to  King's  Bench  at  once. 
So  I  was  taken  to  the  Court  and  my  business  was  quickly 
despatched.  As  a  fine  for  being  poor,  I  had  to  pay  dues 
which  ought  not  to  be  demanded  of  any  prisoner  for  debt — • 
at  least  we  ought  to  assume  that  a  debtor  wants  all  the 
money  he  has  for  his  maintenance.  Thus,  the  Marshal  de- 
manded four  shillings  and  sixpence  on  admission :  the  turn- 
key ei gh teen-pence :  the  Deputy  Marshal  a  shilling:  the 
Clerk  of  the  Papers,  a  shilling:  four  tipstaffs  ten  shillings 
between  them:  and  the  tipstaff  for  bringing  the  prisoner 
from  the  Court,  six  shillings. 


How  I  Got  Into  the  King's  Bench        8 1 

These  dues  paid,  I  was  assigned  a  room,  on  the  ground- 
floor  of  the  Great  Building  (it  was  shared  with  another), 
and  my  imprisonment  began.  It  was  Matthew's  revenge 
and  Mr.  Probus's  first  plan  of  reduction  to  submission.  But 
I  did  not  submit. 

Thus  I  was  trapped  by  the  cunning  of  a  man  whom  I 
believe  to  have  been  veritably  possessed  of  a  Devil.  That 
there  are  such  men  we  know  very  well  from  Holy  Writ: 
their  signs  are  a  wickedness  which  shrinks  from  nothing: 
a  pitiless  nature :  a  constant  desire  for  things  of  this  world : 
and  lastly,  as  happens  always  to  such  men,  the  transforma- 
tion of  what  they  desire,  when  they  do  get  it,  into  dust  and 
ashes ;  or  its  vanishing  quite  away  never  to  be  seen,  touched, 
or  enjoyed  any  more.  These  signs  were  all  visible  in  the 
history  of  Mr.  Probus,  as  you  shall  hear.  Possessed,  be- 
yond a  doubt,  by  a  foul  fiend,  was  this  man  whom  then  I  had 
every  reason  to  hate  and  fear.  Now,  I  cannot  but  feel  a 
mingled  terror  and  pity  when  exemplary  punishment  over- 
takes and  overwhelms  one  who  commits  crimes  which  make 
even  the  convicts  in  the  condemned  cell  to  shake  and  shud- 
der. His  end  was  horrible  and  terrible,  but  it  was  a  fitting 
end  to  such  a  life. 

Tom  Shirley  came,  with  Alice,  to  visit  me  in  my  new 
lodging. 

He  looked  about  him  cheerfully.  'The  new  place/  he 
said,  'is  more  airy  and  spacious  than  the  old  prison  on  the 
other  side  of  the  road,  where  I  spent  a  year  or  two.  This  is 
quite  a  handsome  court:  the  Building  is  a  Palace:  the  Rec- 
reation ground  is  a  Park,  but  without  trees  or  grass:  the 
three  passages  painted  green  remind  me  somehow  of  Spring 
Gardens :  the  numbers  of  people  make  me  think  of  Cheapside 
or  Ludgate  Hill :  the  shops,  no  doubt  contain  every  luxury : 
the  society,  if  mixed,  is  harmonious.  .  .  / 

'In  a  word,  Tom,  I  am  very  lucky  to  get  here/ 

'There  might  be  worse  places.  And  hark  ye,  lad,  if  there 
is  not  another  fiddler  in  the  Bench,  you  will  make  in  a  week 
twice  as  much  in  the  Prison  as  you  can  make  out  of  it. 
Nothing  cheers  a  prisoner  more  than  the  strains  of  a  fiddle. 

This  gave  me  hope.  I  began  to  see  that  I  might  live,  even 
in  this  place. 

'There  are  one  or  two  objections  to  the  place/  this  optimist 
philosopher  went  on.  'I  have  observed,  for  instance,  a  cer- 
.tain  languor  which  steals  over  mind  and  body  in  a  Prison. 


82  The  Orange  Girl 

Some  have  compared  it  with  the  growth  they  call  mildew. 
Have  a  care,  Will.  Practise  daily.  I  have  known  a  musi- 
cian leave  this  place  fit  for  nothing  but  to  play  for  Jack  in 
the  Green.  Look  at  the  people  as  they  pass.  Yonder  pretty 
fellow  is  too  lazy  to  get  his  stockings  darned:  that  fellow 
slouching  after  him  cannot  stoop  to  pull  up  his  stockings: 
that  other  thrusts  his  feet  into  his  slippers  without  pulling 
up  the  heels :  there  goes  one  who  has  worn,  I  warrant  you, 
his  morning  gown  all  day  for  years :  he  cannot  even  get  the 
elbows  darned :  keep  up  thy  heart,  lad.  Before  long  we  will 
get  thee  into  the  Rules.' 

He  visited  my  room.  'Ha!'  he  said,  'neat,  clean,  com- 
modious. With  a  fine  view  of  the  Parade;  with  life  and 
activity  before  one's  eyes.'  He  forgot  that  he  had  just  re- 
marked on  the  languor  and  the  mildew  of  the  Prison.  'Ob- 
serve the  racquet  players:  there  are  finer  players  here  than 
anywhere  else,  I  believe.  And  those  who  do  not  play  at 
racquets  may  find  recreation  at  fives:  and  those  who  are 
not  active  enough  for  fives  may  choose  to  play  at  Bumble 
puppy.  Well,  Will,  Alice  will  come  back  to  me,  with  the 
boy.  She  can  come  here  every  morning  if  you  wish.  Pa- 
tience, lad,  patience.  We  will  get  thee,  before  long,  within 
the  Rules.' 

It  is  possible,  by  the  Warder's  permission,  to  go  into  the 
Rules.  But  the  prisoner  must  pay  down  £10  for  the  first 
£100  of  his  debts,  and  £5  for  every  subsequent  £100.  Now 
I  had  not  ten  shillings  in  the  world.  When  I  look  back  upon 
the  memory  of  that  time :  when  I  think  of  the  treatment  of 
prisoners:  and  of  the  conduct  of  the  prison:  and  when  I 
reflect  that  nothing  is  altered  at  the  present  day  I  am  amazed 
at  the  wonderful  apathy  of  people  as  regards  the  sufferings 
of  others — it  may  become  at  any  time  their  own  case :  at  their 
carelessness  as  concerns  injustice  and  oppression — yet  sub- 
ject every  one  to  the  same  oppression  and  cruelty. 

What,  for  instance,  is  more  monstrous  than  the  fact  that 
a  man  who  has  been  arrested  by  writ,  has  to  pay  fees  to  the 
prison  for  every  separate  writ?  If  he  has  no  money  he  is 
still  held  liable,  so  that  even  if  his  friends  are  willing  to 
pay  his  debts  with  the  exorbitant  costs  of  the  attorney,  there 
are  still  the  fees  to  be  paid.  And  even  if  the  prisoner's 
friends  are_  willing  to  release  him  there  is  still  the  warden 
who  must  be  satisfied  before  he  suffers  his  prisoner  to  go. 

Again  what  can  be  more  iniquitous  than  the  license  al- 


How  I  Got  Into  the  King's  Bench        83 

lowed  to  attorneys  in  the  matter  of  their  costs?  Many  a 
prisoner,  originally  arrested  for  a  debt  of  four  or  five  pounds 
or  even  less,  finds  after  a  while  that  the  attorney's  costs 
amount  to  twenty  or  thirty  pounds  more.  He  might  be  able 
to  discharge  the  debt  alone :  the  costs  make  it  impossible :  the 
creditor  might  let  him  go:  the  attorney  will  never  let  him 
go:  the  friends  might  club  together  to  pay  the  debt:  they 
cannot  pay  the  costs:  the  attorney  abates  nothing,  hoping 
that  compassion  will  induce  the  man's  friends  to  release  him. 
In  some  cases  they  do :  in  others,  the  attorney  finds  that  he 
has  overreached  himself  and  that  the  prisoner  dies  of  that 
incurable  disease  which  we  call  captivity. 
t  At  first  sight  the  Parade  and  the  open  court  of  the  Prison 
present  an  appearance  of  animation.  The  men  playing 
racquets  have  a  little  crowd  gathered  round  them,  there  are 
others  playing  skittles:  children  run  about  shouting:  there 
are  the  shrill  voices  of  women  quarrelling  or  arguing:  the 
crowd  is  always  moving  about:  there  are  men  at  tables 
.smoking  and  drinking:  the  tapsters  run  about  with  bottles 
!of  wine  and  jugs  of  beer.  There  are  women  admitted  to 
see  their  friends,  husbands  and  brothers,  and  to  bring  them 
gifts.  Alas!  when  I  remember — the  sight  conies  back  to 
me  in  dreams — the  sadness  and  the  earnestness  in  their  faces 
and  the  compassion  and  the  love — the  woman's  love  which 
endures  all  and  survives  all  and  conquers  all — I  wish  that  I 
had  the  purse  of  Croesus  to  set  these  captives  free,  even 
though  it  would  enrich  the  attorney,  whose  wiles  have 
brought  them  to  this  place. 

One  has  not  to  look  long  before  the  misery  of  it  is  too 
plainly  apparent  above  the  show  of  cheerful  carelessness. 
One  sees  the  wives  of  the  prisoners:  their  husbands  play 
racquets  and  drink  about  and  of  an  evening  sit  in  the  tavern 
bawling  songs ;  the  poor  women,  ragged  and  draggled,  come 
forth  carrying  their  babes  to  get  a  little  air:  their  faces  are 
stamped  with  the  traces  of  clays  and  weeks  and  years  of 
privation.  The  Prison  has  destroyed  the  husband's  sense 
of  duty  to  his  wife:  he  will  not,  if  he  can,  work  for  his 
family ;  he  lives  upon  such  doles  as  he  can  extract  from  his 
family  or  hers.  Worse  still,  men  lose  their  sense  of  shame : 
they  say  what  they  please  and  care  not  who  hears:  they 
introduce  companions  and  care  not  what  is  said  or  thought 
about  them :  things  are  said  openly  that  no  Christian  should 
hear:  things  are  done  openly  that  no  Christian  should  wit- 


84  The  Orange  Girl 

ness  or  should  know.  There  are  many  hundreds  of  children 
within  these  accursed  walls.  God  help  them,  if  they  under- 
stand what  they  hear  and  what  they  see ! 

In  the  prison  there  are  many  kinds  of  debtors :  there  is  the 
debtor  who  is  always  angry  at  the  undeserved  misery  of  his 
lot:  sometimes  his  wrongs  drive  him  mad  in  earnest:  then 
the  poor  wretch  is  removed  to  Bedlam  where  he  remains 
until  his  death.  There  is,  next,  the  despairing  debtor  who 
sits  as  one  in  a  dream  and  will  never  be  comforted.  There 
is  the  philosophical  debtor  who  accepts  his  fate  and  makes 
the  best  of  it :  there  is  the  meek  and  miserable  debtor — gen- 
erally some  small  tradesman  who  has  been  taught  that  the 
greatest  disgrace  possible  is  that  which  has  actually  fallen 
upon  him ;  there  is  the  debtor  who  affects  the  Beau  and  car- 
ries his  snuff-box  with  an  air.  There  is  the  debtor  who  was 
a  gentleman  and  can  tell  of  balls  at  St.  James's ;  there  is  the 
ruffler  who  swaggers  on  the  Parade,  looking  out  for  new- 
comers and  inviting  those  who  have  money  to  play  with  him. 
As  for  the  women  they  are  like  the  men :  there  are  the  wives 
of  the  prisoners  who  fall,  for  the  most  part,  into  a  draggled 
condition  like  their  husbands;  there  are  ladies  who  put  on 
sumptuous  array  and  flaunt  it  daily  on  the  Parade:  stories 
are  whispered  about  them ;  there  are  others  about  whom  it  is 
unnecessary  to  tell  stories ;  in  a  word  it  is  a  place  where  the 
same  wickedness  goes  on  as  one  may  find  outside. 

There  is  a  chapel  in  the  middle  of  the  great  Building. 
Service  is  held  once  a  week  but  the  attendance  is  thin ;  there 
is  a  taproom  which  is  crowded  all  day  long:  here  men  sit 
over  their  cups  from  morning  till  evening ;  there  is  a  coffee- 
room  where  tea  and  coffee  can  be  procured  and  where  the 
newspapers  are  read ;  this  is  a  great  place  for  the  politicians 
of  whom  there  are  many  in  the  Prison.  Indeed,  I  know 
not  where  politics  are  so  eagerly  debated  as  in  the  King's 
Bench. 

The  King's  Bench  Prison  is  a  wonderful  place  for  the 
observation  of  Fortune  and  her  caprices.  There  was  a  so- 
ciety— call  it  not  a  club — consisting  entirely  of  gentlemen 
who  had  been  born  to  good  estates  and  had  suffered  ruin 
through  no  fault  of  their  own.  These  gentlemen  admitted 
me  to  their  company.  We  dined  together  at  the  Ordinary 
and  conversed  after  dinner.  One  of  them,  born  to  an  easy 
fortune,  was  ruined  by  the  discovery  of  a  parchment  entit- 
ling him  to  another  estate.  There  was  a  lawsuit  lasting  for 


How  I  Got  Into  the  King's  Bench        85 

twenty  years.  He  then  lost  it  and  found  that  the  whole  of 
his  own  estate  had  gone  too.  Another,  a  gentleman  of  large 
estate,  married  an  heiress.  Her  extravagancies  ran  through 
both  her  own  fortune  and  her  husband's.  She  lived  with 
him  in  the  Prison  and  daily,  being  now  a  shrew  as  well  as 
a  slattern,  reproached  him  with  the  ruin  she  herself  had 
caused.  There  was  a  young  fellow  who  had  fallen  among 
lawyers  and  been  ruined  by  them.  He  now  studied  law  in- 
tending as  soon  as  he  got  out  to  commence  attorney  and  to 
practise  the  tricks  and  rogueries  he  had  learned  from  his 
former  friends.  Another  had  bought  a  seat  in  the  House  of 
Commons  and  a  place  with  it.  But  at  the  next  election  he 
lost  his  seat  and  his  place,  too.  And  another  was  a  great 
scholar  in  Arabic.  His  captivity  affected  him  not  one  whit 
because  he  had  his  books  and  could  work  in  the  Prison  as 
well  as  out. 

With  such  companions,  I  endeavoured  to  keep  aloof  from 
the  drinking  and  roystering  crew  which  made  the  Prison  dis- 
orderly and  noisy.  Yet,  as  I  will  show  you  directly,  I  was 
the  nightly  servant  of  the  roysterers. 

You  have  heard  of  Tom  Shirley's  judgment  that  in  every 
debtors'  prison  the  collegians,  if  they  do  not,  as  many  do,  go 
about  in  filthy  rags  and  tatters,  are  all  slatterns :  some  can  af- 
ford to  dress  with  decency  and  cleanliness,  not  to  speak  of 
fashion,  which  would  be,  indeed,  out  of  place  in  the  King's 
Bench;  even  those  care  not  to  observe  the  customs  of  the 
outside  world;  the  ruffles  are  no  longer  white  or  no  longer 
visible ;  the  waist-coat  is  unbuttoned ;  the  coat  is  powdered ; 
the  wig  is  uncurled ;  those  who  wear  their  own  hair  leave  it 
hanging  over  the  ears  instead  of  tying  it  neatly  with  a  black 
ribbon  behind.  This  general  neglect  of  dress  corresponds 
with  the  universal  neglect  of  morals  which  prevails  through- 
out the  Prison.  Everything  conspires  to  drag  down  and  to 
degrade  the  unfortunate  prisoner:  the  hopelessness  of  his 
lot ;  the  persecution  of  his  enemies ;  the  uncertainty  about  the 
daily  bread ;  the  freedom  with  which  drink  is  offered  about 
by  those  who  'coll  it/  i.e.,  in  the  language  of  the  place  who 
have  money ;  the  temptation  to  do  as  others  do  and  forget 
his  sorrows  over  a  bowl  of  punch ;  speedily  contaminate  the 
prisoner  and  make  him  in  all  respects  like  unto  those  around 
him.  I  have  said  already  that  if  it  is  bad  for  men  it  is  worse 
for  women.  Let  me  draw  a  veil  over  this  side  of  the  King's 
Bench.  Suffice  it  to  say  that  one  who  has  written  on  the 


86  The  Orange  Girl 

Prisons  has  declared  that  if  Diana  herself  and  her  nymphs 
were  to  be  imprisoned  for  twelve  months  in  the  King's 
Bench,  at  the  end  of  that  time  they  would  all  be  fit  compan- 
ions for  Messalina. 

It  is  not  only  from  their  rags  that  the  poverty  of  the 
prisoners  is  betrayed;  one  may  learn  from  their  hollow 
cheeks,  their  eager  eyes,  their  feeble  gait,  that  many — too 
many — are  suffering  from  want  of  food.  It  is  true  that  the 
law  of  the  land  gives  to  every  prisoner  a  groat — four-pence 
a  day — to  be  paid  by  the  detaining  creditor:  yet  the  groat 
is  not  always  paid,  and  can  only  be  obtained  if  the  creditor 
refuses  it  by  legal  steps,  which  a  man  destitute  of  money 
cannot  take.  What  attorney  will  take  up  the  case  of  a  man 
without  a  farthing?  If  the  debtor  wins  his  case  how  is  he 
to  pay  the  attorney  and  costs  out  of  four-pence  a  day  ?  If  he 
wishes  to  plead  in  forma  pauperis,  the  law  allows  the  warder 
to  charge  six  shillings  and  eight-pence  for  leave  to  go  to  the 
Court  and  half  a  crown  for  the  turnkey  to  take  him  there — 
what  prisoner  on  the  poor  side  can  pay  these  fees  ?  So  that 
when  a  prisoner  is  really  poor  he  cannot  get  his  groats  at  all, 
for  the  creditor  will  not  pay  them  unless  he  is  obliged. 
Again  there  are  other  ways  of  evading  the  law.  If  a  debtor 
surrenders  in  June  there  is  no  Court  till  November  and  the 
creditor  need  not  pay  anything  till  the  order  of  the  Court  is 
issued.  There  are  a  few  doles  and  charities;  but  these 
amount  to  no  more  than  about  £100  a  year,  say,  two  pounds 
a  week  or  six  shillings  a  day.  Now  there  are  600  prisoners 
as  a  rule.  How  many  of  these  are  on  the  poor  side?  And 
how  far  will  six  shillings  a  day  go  among  these  starving 
wretches?  There  are  also  the  boxes  into  which  a  few  shill- 
ings a  day  are  dropped.  But  how  far  will  these  go  among 
so  many?  It  is  within  my  certain  knowledge  that  many 
would  die  of  sheer  starvation  every  week  were  it  not  for  the 
kindness  of  those  but  one  step  above  them. 

If,  for  instance,  one  would  understand  what  poverty  may 
mean  he  must  visit  the  Common  side  of  the  King's  Bench 
Prison.  Those  who  have  visited  the  courts  and  narrow 
lanes  of  Wapping  report  terrible  stories  of  rags  and  filth, 
but  the  people,  by  hook  or  by  crook,  get  food.  In  the  Prison 
there  is  neither  hook  nor  crook :  the  prisoner  unless  he  knows 
a  trade  which  may  be  useful  in  that  place:  unless  he  can 
repair  shoes  and  clothes :  unless  he  can  shave  and  dress  the 
hair,  cannot  earn  a  penny.  Look  at  these  poor  wretches,. 


How  I  Got  Into  the  King's  Bench        87 

slinking  about  the  courts,  hoping  to  attract  the  compassion 
of  some  visitor ;  see  them  uncombed,  unwashed,  unshaven ; 
their  long  hair  hanging  over  their  ears;  a  horrid  bristling 
beard  upon  their  chin ;  their  faces  wan  with  insufficient  food, 
their  eyes  eagerly  glancing  here  and  there  to  catch  a  look  of 
pity,  a  dole  or  a  loan.  If  you  follow  them  to  the  misery  of 
the  Common  side  where  they  are  thrust  at  night  you  will  see 
creatures  more  wretched  still.  These  can  go  abroad  even 
though  skewers  take  the  place  of  buttons ;  these  have  shoes 
— which  once  had  toes ;  these  have  beds,  of  a  kind ;  there  are 
others  who  have  no  beds,  but  lie  on  the  floor ;  who  have  no 
blankets  and  never  take  off  their  rags;  who  go  barefooted 
and  bare-headed.  Remember  that  their  life-long  imprison- 
ment was  imposed  upon  them  because  they  could  not  pay 
a  debt  of  a  pound  or  two.  Their  pound  or  two,  by  reason 
of  the  attorney's  costs  and  the  warden's  fees,  has  grown  and 
swelled  till  it  has  reached  the  amount  of  £20  or  £40  or  any- 
thing you  will.  No  one  can  release  them;  the  only  thing 
to  be  hoped  is  that  cold  and  starvation  may  speedily  bring 
them  to  the  end — the  long  sleep  in  the  graveyard  of  St. 
George's  Church. 

I  speedily  found  that  I  could  manage  to  live  pretty  well 
by  means  of  my  'fiddle.  Almost  every  evening  there  was 
some  drinking  party  which  engaged  my  services.  I  played 
for  them  the  old  tunes  to  which  they  sang  their  songs  about 
wine  and  women — bawling  them  at  the  top  of  their  voices ; 
they  paid  me  as  much  as  I  could  expect.  By  good  luck 
there  was  no  other  fiddler  in  the  place ;  a  harpist  there  was ; 
and  a  flute-player;  we  sometimes  agreed  together  to  give  a 
concert  in  the  coffee-room. 

I  continued  this  life  for  about  six  months,  making  enough 
money  every  week  to  pay  my  way  at  the  Ordinary.  Per- 
haps— I  know  not — the  prison  was  already  beginning  to 
work  its  way  with  me  and  to  reduce  me,  as  Tom  Shirley  said, 
to  the  condition  of  a  fiddler  to  Jack  in  the  Green. 

I  'had  a  visit,  after  some  three  months,  from  Mr.  Probus. 
He  came  one  day  into  the  prison.  I  saw  him  standing  on 
the  pavement  looking  round  him.  Some  of  the  collegians 
knew  him :  they  whispered  and  looked  at  him  with  the  face 
that  means  death  if  that  were  possible.  One  man  stepped 
forward  and  cursed  him.  'Dog!'  he  said,  'if  I  had  you  out- 
side this  accursed  place,  I  would  make  an  end  of  you/ 

'Sir/  said  Mr.  Probus,  at  whose  heels  marched  a  turnkey, 


88  The  Orange  Girl 

'you  do  me  an  injustice  for  which  you  will  one  day  be 
sorry.  Am  I  your  detaining  creditor?' 

The  man  cursed  him  again,  I  know  not  why,  and  turned 
on  his  heel. 

Then  I  stepped  forward.  'Did  you  come  here  to  gloat 
over  your  work,  Mr.  Probus?' 

'Mr.  William?  I  hope  you  are  well,  Sir.  The  prison 
air,  I  find,  is  fresh  from  the  fields.  You  look  better  than 
I  expected.  To  be  sure  it  is  early  days.  You  are  only  just 
beginning/ 

'You  will  be  sorry  to  hear  that  I  am  very  well.' 

'I  would  have  speech  in  a  retired  place,  Mr.  William/ 

'You  want  once  more  to  dangle  your  bribe  before  me.  I 
understand,  sir,  very  well,  what  you  would  say/ 

'Then  let  me  say  it  here.  Your  cousin,  I  may  say,  deplores 
deeply  this  new  disgrace  to  the  family.  He  eanrestly  desires 
to  remove  it.  I  am  again  empowered  to  purchase  an  ima- 
ginary reversion.  Mr.  William,  he  will  now  make  it 
£4,000.  Will  that  content  you?' 

'Nothing  will  content  me.  There  is  some  secret  reason 
for  this  persecution.  You  want — you — not  my  cousin — to 
get  access  to  this  great  sum  of  money.  Well,  Mr.  Probus, 
my  opinion  is  that  my  cousin  will  die  before  me.  And  since 
I  am  firmly  persuaded  upon  that  point,  and  since  I  believe 
that  you  think  so  too,  my  answer  is  the  same  as  before/ 

'Then/  he  said,  'stay  here  and  rot/  He  looked  round  the 
prison.  'It  is  a  pleasant  place  for  a  young  man  to  spend  his 
days,  is  it  not  ?  All  his  days — till  an  attack  of  gaol  fever  or 
small-pox  visits  the  place.  Eh?  Eh?  Eh?  Then  you 
will  be  sorry/ 

'I  shall  never  be  sorry,  Mr.  Probus,  to  have  frustrated 
any  plots  and  designs  of  yours.  Be  assured  of  that — and 
for  the  rest,  do  your  worst/ 

He  slowly  walked  away  without  a  word.  But  all  the 
devil  in  his  soul  flared  in  his  eyes  as  he  turned. 

'You  do  wrong/  said  the  turnkey  who  had  accompanied 
him.  '  'Tis  the  keenest  of  his  kind.  Not  another  attorney 
in  all  London  has  brought  us,  not  to  speak  of  the  Fleet  and 
Newgate,  more  prisoners  than  Mr.  Probus.  For  hunting 
up  detainers  and  running  up  the  costs  he  has  no  equal/ 

'He  is  my  detaining  creditor/  I  said. 

The  turnkey  shrugged  his  shoulders. 

'Young  gentleman/  he  said,  'I  see  that  you  are  a  gentle- 


How  I  Got  Into  the  King's  Bench        89 

man,  although  you  are  a  fiddler — take  advice.  Agree  with 
his  terms  quickly,  whatever  they  are.  He  made  you  an 
offer — take  it,  before  he  lands  you  in  another  court  with  new 
writs  and  more  costs.' 

In  fact,  the  very  next  day,  I  heard  that  there  was  another 
writ  in  the  name  of  one  John  Merridew,  Sheriff's  officer,  for 
fifty  pounds  alleged  to  have  been  lent  to  me  by  him.  As  for 
Mr.  John  Merridew,  I  knew  not  even  the  name  of  the  man, 
and  I  had  never  borrowed  sixpence  of  anyone. 

I  showed  the  writ  to  my  friend  the  turnkey.  He  read 
it  with  admiration. 

'I  told  you  so,'  he  said,  'what  a  man  he  is!  And  Merri- 
dew, too — Merridew !  And  you  never  borrowed  the  money, 
and  never  saw  the  man!  What  a  man!  What  a  man! 
Merridew,  too,  under  his  thumb!  There's  ability  for  you! 
There's  resource!' 

I  murmured  something  not  complimentary.  Indeed,  I 
knew  nothing,  at  that  time,  of  Merridew. 

'Ah!  He  means  to  keep  you  here  until  you  accept  his 
offer.  Better  take  it  now,  then  he'll  let  you  go  for  his  costs. 
He  won't  give  up  the  costs.  What  a  man  it  is !  And  you've 
never  set  eyes  on  John  Merridew,  have  you  ?  What  a  man ! 
He  knows  John  Merridew,  you  see.  Why,  between  them 

'  He  looked  at  me  meaningly,  and  laid  his  hand  upon 

my  shoulder.  'Take  my  advice,  Sir.  Take  my  advice,  and 
accept  that  offer  of  his.  Else — I  don't  say,  mind,  but  Mer- 
ridew— Merridew '  He  placed  his  thumb  upon  the  left 

side  of  my  neck,  and  pressed  it.  'Many — many — have  gone 
that  way — through  Merridew.  And  Probus  rules  Merri- 
dew/ 


END  OF  BOOK  Z 


PART  II 

OUT  OF  THE  FRYING  PAN  INTO  THE 

FIRE 


CHAPTER  I 

RELEASE 

You  have  read  how  a  certain  lady  came  to  the  Prison :  how 
she  spoke  with  two  prisoners  of  the  baser  sort  in  a  manner 
familiar  and  yet  scornful:  and  how  she  addressed  me  and 
appeared  moved  and  astonished  on  hearing  my  name.  I 
thought  little  more  about  her,  save  as  an  agreeable  vision 
in  the  midst  of  the  rags  and  sordidness  of  the  Prison,  now 
growing  daily — alas! — more  familiar  and  less  repulsive. 
For  this  is  the  way  in  the  King's  Bench. 

She  came,  however,  a  second  time,  and  this  time  she  came 
to  visit  me.  It  was  in  the  morning.  Alice  was  in  my  room ; 
with  her  the  boy,  now  in  his  second  year,  so  strong  that  he 
could  not  be  kept  from  pulling  himself  up  by  the  help  of  a 
chair.  She  was  showing  me  his  ways  and  his  tricks,  rejoicing 
in  the  wilfulness  and  strength  of  the  child.  I  was  watch- 
ing and  listening,  my  pride  and  happiness  in  the  boy  dashed 
by  the  thought  that  he  must  grow  up  to  be  ashamed  of  his 
father  as  a  prison  bird.  Prison  has  no  greater  sting  than 
the  thought  of  your  children's  shame.  For  the  time  went 
on  and  day  after  day  only  made  release  appear  more  im- 
possible. How  could  I  get  out  who  had  no  friends  and 
could  save  no  money  ?  I  had  now  been  in  prison  for  nearly 
a  year:  I  began  to  look  for  nothing  more  than  to  remain 
there  for  all  my  life. 


92  The  Orange  Girl 

While  I  was  looking  at  the  boy  and  sadly  thinking  of 
these  things,  I  heard  a  quick,  light  step  outside,  followed  by 
a  gentle  tap  at  the  door.  And  lo!  there  entered  the  lady 
who  had  spoken  with  those  two  sons  of  Belial  and  with  me. 

'I  said  I  would  come  again/  She  smiled,  and  it  was  as 
if  the  sunshine  poured  into  the  room.  She  gave  me  her 
hand  and  it  was  like  a  hand  dragging  me  out  of  the  Slough 
of  Despond.  'Your  room,'  she  said,  'is  not  so  bad,  consid- 
ering the  place.  This  lady  is  your  wife?  Madam,  your 
most  respectful/ 

So  she  curtseyed  low  and  Alice  did  the  like.  Then  she 
saw  the  child. 

'Oh  !'  she  cried.  'The  pretty  boy !  The  lovely  boy !'  She 
snatched  him  and  tossed  him  crowing  and  laughing,  and 
covered  him  with  kisses.  'Oh !  The  light,  soft,  silky  hair !' 
she  cried.  'Oh !  the  sweet  blue  eyes !  Oh !  the  pretty  face. 
Master  Will  Halliday,  you  are  to  be  envied  even  in  this 
place.  Your  cousin  Matthew  hath  no  such  blessing  as  this/ 

'Matthew  is  not  even  married/ 

'Indeed?  Perhaps,  if  he  is,  this,  as  well  as  other  bless- 
ings, has  been  denied  him/  she  replied,  with  a  little  change 
in  her  face  as  if  a  cloud  had  suddenly  fallen.  But  it  quickly 
passed. 

I  could  observe  that  Alice  regarded  her  visitor  with  ad- 
miration and  curiosity.  This  was  a  kind  of  woman  unknown 
to  my  girl,  who  knew  nothing  of  the  world  or  of  fine  ladies : 
they  were  outside  her  own  experience.  The  two  women 
wore  a  strange  contrast  to  each  other.  Alice  with  her  seri- 
ous air  of  meditation,  and  her  grave  eyes,  might  have  sat 
to  a  painter  for  the  Spirit  of  Music,  or  for  St.  Cecilia  her- 
self:  or  indeed  for  any  saint,  or  muse,  or  heathen  goddess 
who  must  show  in  her  face  a  heavenly  sweetness  of  thought, 
with  holy  meditation.  All  the  purity  and  tenderness  of  re- 
ligion lay  always  in  the  face  of  Alice.  Our  visitor,  on  the 
other  hand,  would  have  sat  more  fitly  for  the  Queen  of  Love, 
or  the  Spirit  of  Earthly  Love.  Truly  she  was  more  beauti- 
ful than  any  other  woman  whom  I  had  ever  seen,  or  imag- 
ined. I  thought  her  beautiful  on  the  stage,  but  then  her  face 
was  covered  with  the  crimson  paint  by  which  actresses  have 
to  spoil  their  cheeks.  Off  the  stage,  it  was  the  beauty  of 
Venus  herself:  a  beauty  which  invited  love:  a  beauty  alto- 
gether soft:  in  every  point  soft  and  sweet  and  caressing: 
eyes  that  were  limpid  and  soft:  a  blooming  cheek  which 


Out  of  the  Frying  Pan  Into  the  Fire      93 

needed  no  paint,  which  was  as  soft  as  velvet  and  as  delicately 
coloured  as  a  peach :  lips  smiling,  rosy  red  and  soft :  her 
hands :  her  voice :  her  laugh :  everything  about  this  heavenly 
creature,  I  say,  invited  and  compelled  and  created  love. 

You  think  that  as  one  already  sworn  to  love  and  comfort 
another  woman,  I  speak  with  reprehensible  praise.  Well, 
I  have  already  confessed — it  is  not  a  confession  of  shame — 
that  I  loved  her  from  the  very  first :  from  the  time  when  she 
spoke  to  me  first.  I  am  not  ashamed  of  loving  her :  Alice 
knows  that  I  have  always  loved  her:  you  shall  hear,  pres- 
ently, why  I  need  not  be  ashamed  and  why  I  loved  her,  if  I 
may  say  so,  as  a  sister.  It  is  possible  to  love  a  woman  with- 
out thoughts  of  earthly  love :  to  admire  her  loveliness :  to  re- 
spect her :  to  worship  her :  yet  not  as  an  earthly  lover.  Such 
love  as  Petrarch  felt  for  Laura  I  felt  for  this  sweet  and  lovely 
woman. 

She  gave  back  the  child  to  his  mother.  'Mr.  Will  Halli- 
day/  she  said.  'It  is  not  only  for  the  child  that  thou  art 
blessed  above  other  men' — looking  so  intently  upon  Alice 
that  the  poor  girl  blushed  and  was  confused.  'Sure/  she 
said,  'it  is  a  face  which  I  have  seen  in  a  picture/ 

She  was  a  witch :  she  drew  all  hearts  to  her :  yet  not,  like 
Circe,  to  their  ruin  and  undoing.  And  if  she  was  soft  and 
kind  of  speech,  she  was  also  generous  of  heart.  She  was 
always,  as  I  was  afterwards  to  find  out,  helping  others, 
How  she  helped  me  you  shall  hear.  Meantime  I  must  not 
forget  that  her  face  showed  a  most  remarkable  virginal  in- 
nocence. It  seemed  natural  to  her  face :  a  part  of  it,  that  it 
should  proclaim  a  perfect  maidenly  innocence  of  soul.  I 
know  that  many  things  have  been  said  about  her;  for  my 
own  part  I  care  to  know  nothing  more  about  her  than  she 
herself  has  been  pleased  to  tell  me.  I  choose  to  believe  that 
the  innocence  in  her  face  proclaimed  the  innocence  of  her 
life.  And,  with  this  innocence,  a  face  which  was  always 
changing  with  every  mood  that  crossed  her  mind:  moved 
by  every  touch  of  passion :  sensitive  as  an  Aeolian  harp  to 
every  breath  of  wind. 

She  sat  down  on  the  bed.  'I  told  you  that  I  would  come 
again/  she  said.  'Do  not  take  me  for  a  curious  and  meddle- 
some person.  Madam/  she  turned  to  Alice,  'I  come  because 
I  know  something  about  your  husband's  cousin,  Matthew. 
If  you  will  favour  me,  I  should  like  to  know  the  meaning  of 
this  imprisonment,  and  what  Matthew  has  to  do  with  it/ 


94  The  Orange  Girl 

So  I  told  the  whole  story :  the  clause  in  my  father's  will : 
the  attempt  made  to  persuade  me  to  sell  my  chance  of  the 
succession:  the  threats  used  by  Mr.  Probus:  the  alleged 
debt  for  his  harpsichord:  and  the  alleged  debt  to  one  John 
Merridew. 

She  heard  the  whole  patiently.  Then  she  nodded  her 
head. 

Trobus  I  know,  though  he  does  not,  happily,  know  me. 
Of  the  man  Merridew  also  I  know  something.  He  is  a 
sheriff's  officer  by  trade ;  but  he  has  more  trades  than  one. 
Probus  is  an  attorney ;  but  he,  too,  has  more  trades  than  one. 
My  friends,  this  is  the  work  of  Probus.  I  see  Probus  in  it 
from  the  beginning.  I  conjecture  that  Merridew,  for  some 
consideration,  has  borrowed  money  from  Probus  more  than 
he  can  repay.  Therefore,  he  has  to  do  whatever  Probus 
orders/ 

'Mr.  Probus  is  Matthew's  attorney.' 

'Yes.  An  attorney  does  not  commit  crimes  for  his  client, 
unless  he  is  well  paid  for  it.  I  do  not  know  what  it  means 
except  that  Matthew  wants  money,  which  does  not  surprise 

'Matthew  is  a  partner  in  the  House  of  Halliday  Brothers. 
He  has  beside  a  large  fortune  which  should  have  been  mine.' 

'Yet  Matthew  may  want  money.  I  am  not  a  lawyer,  but 
I  suppose  that  if  you  sell  your  chance  to  him,  he  can  raise 
money  on  the  succession.' 

'I  suppose  so.' 

'Probus  must  want  money  too.  Else  he  would  not  have 
committed  the  crime  of  imprisoning  you  on  a  false  charge 
of  debt.  Well,  we  need  not  waste  time  in  asking  why.  The 
question  is,  first  of  all,  how  to  get  you  out.' 

Alice  clutched  her  little  one  to  her  heart  and  her  colour 
vanished,  by  which  I  understood  the  longing  that  was  in 
her. 

To  get  me  out  ?  Madam ;  I  have  no  friends  in  the  world 
who  could  raise  ten  pounds/ 

'Nevertheless,  Mr.  Will,  a  body  may  ask  how  much  is 
wanted  to  get  you  out/ 

'There  is  the  alleged  debt  for  the  harpsichord  of  fifty-five 
pounds :  there  is  also  the  alleged  debt  due  to  Mr.  John  Mer- 
ridew of  fifty  pounds:  there  are  the  costs:  and  there  are  the 
fines  or  garnish  without  which  one  cannot  leave  the  place/ 

'Say,  perhaps  in  all,  a  hundred  and  fifty  pounds.     It  is 


ALICE   FELL   ON    HER    KNEES    AND    CLASPED    HER    HAND. 


Out  of  the  Frying  Pan  Into  the  Fire      95 

not  much.  I  think  I  can  find  a  man' — she  laughed — 'who, 
out  of  his  singular  love  to  you,  will  give  the  money  to  take 
you  out/ 

'You  know  a  man?  Madame,  I  protest — there  is  no  one, 
in  the  whole  world — who  would  do  such  a  thing/ 

'Yet  if  I  assure  you ' 

'Oh!  Madame!  Will!'  Alice  fell  on  her  knees  and 
clasped  her  hand.  'See!  It  is  herself!  herself!' 

'But  why? — why?'  I  asked  incredulous. 

'Because  she  is  all  goodness,'  Alice  cried,  the  tears  rolling 
down  her  face. 

'All  goodness !'  Madame  laughed.  'Yes,  I  am  indeed  all 
goodness.  Get  up  dear  woman.  And  go  on  thinking  that, 
if  you  can.  All  goodness!'  And  she  laughed  scornfully. 
'A  hundred  and  fifty  pounds/  she  repeated.  'Yes,  I  think 
I  know  where  to  get  this  money/ 

'Are  we  dreaming?'  I  asked. 

'But,  Will,'  she  became  very  serious,  'I  must  be  plain  with 
you.  It  is  certain  to  me  that  the  man  Probus  has  got  some 
hold  over  your  cousin.  Otherwise  he  would  not  be  so  im- 
patient for  you  to  sell  your  reversion.  Some  day  I  will 
show  you  why  I  think  this.  Learn,  moreover,  that  the  man 
Probus  is  a  man  of  one  passion  only.  He  wants  money: 
he  wants  nothing  else :  it  is  his  only  desire  to  get  money.  If 
anybody  interferes  with  his  money  getting,  he  will  grind 
that  man  to  powder.  You  have  interfered  with  him:  he 
has  thrust  you  into  prison.  Do  not  believe  that  when  you 
are  out  he  will  cease  to  persecute  you/ 

'What  am  I  to  do,  then?' 

'If  you  come  to  terms  with  him  he  will  at  once  cease  his 
persecution/ 

'Come  to  terms  with  him?' 

'His  terms  must  mean  a  great  sum  of  money  for  himself, 
not  for  you — or  for  your  cousin.  Else  he  would  not  be  so 
eager/ 

'I  can  never  accept  his  terms/  I  said. 

'He  will  go  on,  then.  If  it  is  a  very  large  sum  of  money 
he  will  stick  at  nothing/ 

'Then  what  am  I  to  do?' 

'Keep  out  of  his  way.  For,  believe  me,  there  is  nothing 
that  he  will  not  attempt  to  get  you  once  more  in  his  power. 
Consider :  he  put  you  in  here,  knowing  that  you  are  penni- 
less. He  calculates  that  the  time  will  come  when  you  will 


96  The  Orange  Girl 

be  so  broken  by  imprisonment  that  you  will  be  ready  to 
make  any  terms.  Nay — he  thinks  that  the  prison  air  will 
kill  you/ 

'The  Lord  will  protect  us/  said  Alice. 

Madame  looked  up  with  surprise.  'They  say  that  on  the 
stage,'  she  said.  'What  does  it  mean?' 

'It  means  that  we  are  all  in  the  hands  of  the  Lord.  With- 
out His  will  not  even  a  sparrow  falleth  to  the  ground/ 

Madame  shook  her  head.  'At  least/  she  said,  'we  must 
do  what  we  can  to  protect  ourselves/  She  rose.  'I  am 
going  now  to  get  that  money.  You  shall  hear  from  me  in  a 
day  or  two.  Perhaps  it  may  take  a  week  before  you  are 
finally  released.  But  keep  up  your  hearts/ 

She  took  the  child  again  and  kissed  him.  Then  she  gave 
him  back  to  his  mother. 

'You  are  a  good  woman/  she  said.  'Your  face  is  good : 
your  voice  is  good :  what  you  say  is  good.  But,  remember. 
Add  to  what  you  call  the  protection  of  the  Lord  a  few  pre- 
cautions. To  stand  between  such  an  one  as  Probus  and  the 
money  that  he  is  hunting  is  like  standing  between  a  tigress 
and  her  prey.  He  will  have  no  mercy :  there  is  no  wicked- 
ness that  'he  will  hesitate  to  devise :  what  he  will  do  next,  I 
know  not,  but  it  will  be  something  that  belongs  to  his  mas- 
ter, the  Devil/ 

'The  Lord  will  protect  us/  Alice  repeated,  laying  her  hand 
on  the  flaxen  hair  of  her  child. 

We  stared  at  each  other,  when  she  was  gone.  'Will/ 
aske'd  Alice,  with  suffused  eyes  and  dropping  voice.  'Is  she 
an  angel  from  Heaven?' 

'An  angel,  doubtless — but  not  from  Heaven — yet.  My 
dear,  it  is  the  actress  who  charmed  us  when  we  went  to  the 
Play — on  our  wedding-day.  It  is  Miss  Jenny  Wilmot  her- 
self/ 

'Oh!  If  all  actresses  are  like  her!  Yet  they  say 

Will,  she  shall  have,  at  least,  our  prayers ' 

Three  or  four  days  later — the  time  seemed  many  years — 
an  attorney  came  to  see  me.  Not  such  an  attorney  as  Mr. 
Probus :  a  gentleman  of  open  countenance  and  pleasant  man- 
ners. He  came  to  tell  me  that  my  business  was  done,  and 
that  after  certain  dues  were  paid — which  were  provided  for 
»— I  could  walk  out  of  the  prison. 


Out  of  the  Frying  Pan  Into  the  Fire      97 

'Sir/  I  said,  'I  beg  you  to  convey  to  Miss  Jenny  Wilmot, 
my  benefactress,  my  heartfelt  gratitude/ 

'I  will,  Mr.  Halliday.  I  perceive  that  you  know  her 
name.  Let  me  beg  you  not  to  wait  upon  her  in  person.  To 
be  sure,  she  has  left  Drury  Lane  and  you  do  not  know  her 
present  address.  'It  is  enough  that  she  has  been  able  to 
benefit  you,  and  that  you  have  sent  her  a  becoming  message 
of  gratitude.  But,  Sir,  one  word  of  caution.  She  bids  you 
remember  that  you  have  an  implacable  enemy.  Take  care, 
therefore,  take  care.' 


CHAPTER  II 

HOW  I  GOT  A  NEW  PLACE 

So  I  was  free.  For  twenty-four  hours  I  was  like  a  boy  on 
the  first  day  of  his  holidays.  I  exulted  in  my  liberty:  I 
ran  about  the  meadows  and  along  the  Embankment:  I 
got  into  a  boat  and  rowed  up  and  down  the  river.  But  when 
the  first  rapture  of  freedom  was  spent  I  remembered  that 
free  or  within  stone  walls,  I  had  still  to  earn  a  living.  I 
had  but  one  way :  I  must  find  a  place  in  an  Orchestra.  At 
the  Dog  and  Duck,  where  my  brother-in-law  still  led,  there 
was  no  place  for  me. 

There  are,  however,  a  great  many  taverns  with  gardens 
and  dancing  and  singing  places  and  bands  of  music.  I  set 
off  to  find  one  where  they  wanted  a  fiddle.  I  went,  I  be- 
lieve, the  whole  round  of  them — from  the  Temple  of  Flora 
to  the  White  Conduit  House,  and  from  Bermondsey  Spa  to 
the  Assembly  Rooms  at  Hampstead.  Had  all  the  world 
turned  fiddler?  Everywhere  the  same  reply — 'No  vacancy/ 
Meantime  we  were  living  on  the  bounty  of  my  brother-in- 
law  Whose  earnings  were  scanty  for  his  own  modest  house. 

Then  I  thought  of  the  organ.  Of  course  my  place  at  St. 
George's  Borough  was  filled  up.  There  are  about  a  hun- 
dred churches  in  London,  however:  most  of  them  have  or- 
gans. I  tried  every  one:  and  always  with  the  same  result: 
the  place  was  filled.  I  thought  of  my  old  trade  of  fiddling 
to  the  sailors.  Would  you  believe  it  ?  There  was  not  even 
a  tavern  parlour  where  they  wanted  a  fiddle  to  make  the 


98  The  Orange  Girl 

sailors  dance  and  drink.  Had  Mr.  Probus  been  able  to  keep 
me  out  of  everything? 

Alice  did  her  best  to  sustain  my  courage.  She  preserved 
a  cheerful  countenance :  she  brushed  my  coat  and  hat  in  the 
morning  with  a  word  of  encouragement:  she  welcomed  me 
home  when  I  returned  footsore  and  with  an  aching  heart. 
Why,  even  in  the  far  darker  time  that  presently  followed 
she  preserved  the  outward  form  of  cheerfulness  and  the 
inner  heart  of  faith. 

The  weeks  passed  on :  my  bad  luck  remained :  I  could  hear 
of  no  work,  not  even  temporary  work :  I  began  to  think 
that  even  the  Prison  where  I  could  at  least  earn  my  two  or 
three  shillings  a  day  was  better  than  freedom:  I  began  also 
to  think  that  Mr.  Probus  must  have  all  the  orchestras  and 
music-galleries  in  his  own  power,  together  with  all  the 
churches  that  had  organs.  My  shoes  wore  out  and  could 
not  be  replaced:  my  appearance  was  such  as  might  be  ex- 
pected when  for  most  of  the  time  I  had  nothing  between 
bread  and  cheese  and  beer  for  breakfast,  and  bread  and 
cheese  and  beer  for  supper.  And  I  think  that  the  miserable 
figure  I  presented  was  often  the  cause  of  rejection. 

Chance — say  Providence — helped  me.  I  was  walking, 
sadly  enough,  by  Charing  Cross,  one  afternoon,  being  weary, 
hungry,  and  dejected,  when  I  heard  a  voice  cry  out,  'Will 
Halfiday!  Will  Halliday!  Are  you  deaf?' 

I  turned  round.  It  was  Madame,  my  benefactress,  my 
patroness.  She  was  in  a  hackney  coach. 

'Come  in/  she  cried,  stopping  her  driver.  'Come  in  with 
me.' 

I  obeyed,  nothing  loth. 

'Why/  she  said  looking  at  me.  'What  is  the  matter? 
Your  cheeks  are  hollow :  your  face  is  pale :  your  limbs  are 
shaking:  worse  still — you  are  shabby.  What  has  hap- 
pened?' 

I  could  make  no  reply. 

'Your  sweet  wife — and  the  lovely  boy.     They  are  well?' 

When  a  man  has  been  living  for  many  weeks  on  insuffi- 
cient food:  when  he  has  been  turned  away  at  every  appli- 
cation, he  may  be  forgiven  if  he  loses,  on  small  provocation, 
his  self-control.  I  am  not  ashamed  to  say  that  her  kind 
words  and  her  kind  looks  were  too  much  for  me  in  my  weak 
condition.  I  burst  into  tears. 

She  laid  her  hand  on  my  arm,    'Will/  she  said,  as  if 


I   TURNED    AROUND  ;    IT   WAS   MADAM. 


Out  of  the  Frying  Pan  Into  the  Fire      99 

she  were  a  sister,  'yottf  shall  tell  me  all-^-but  you  shall  go 
home  with  me  and  we  will  talk/ 

I  observed  that  the  coachman  drove  up  St.  Martin's  Lane 
and  through  a  collection  of  streets  which  I  had  never  seen 
before.  It  was  the  part  called  St.  Giles's ;  a  place  which  is  a 
kind  of  laystall  into  which  are  shot  every  day  quantities  of 
the  scum,  dirt,  and  refuse  of  this  huge  and  overgrown  city. 
I  looked  out  of  the  window  upon  a  crowd  of  faces  more  vil- 
lainous than  one  could  conceive  possible,  stamped  with  the 
brand  of  Cain.  They  were  lying  about  in  the  doorways, 
at  the  open  windows,  for  it  was  the  month  of  September  and 
a  warm  day  and  on  the  doorsteps  and  in  the  unpaved,  unlit, 
squalid  streets.  Never  did  I  see  so  many  ragged  and  naked 
brats ;  never  did  I  see  so  many  cripples,  so  many  hunchbacks, 
so  many  deformed  people:  they  were  of  all  kinds — bandy- 
legged, knock-kneed,  those  whose  shins  curve  outward  like 
a  bow,  round-backed,  one-eyed,  blind,  lame. 

'They  are  the  beggars,'  said  my  companion.  'Their  de- 
formities mean  drink :  they  mean  the  mothers  who  drink 
and  drop  the  babies  about.  Beggars  and  thieves — they  are 
the  people  of  St.  Giles's/ 

'I  wonder  you  come  this  way.     Are  you  not  afraid  ?' 

'They  will  not  hurt  me.  I  wish  they  would,'  she  added 
with  a  sigh. 

A  strange  wish.  I  was  soon,  however,  to  understand 
what  she  meant. 

Certainly,  no  one  molested  us,  or  stopped  the  coach:  we 
passed  through  these  streets  into  High  Street,  Holburn,  and 
to  St.  Giles's  Church  where  the  criminal  on  his  way  to  Ty- 
burn receives  his  last  drink.  Then,  by  another  turn,  into  a 
noble  square  with  a  garden  surrounded  by  great  houses,  of 
which  the  greatest  was  built  for  the  unfortunate  Duke  of 
Monmouth.  The  coachman  stopped  before  one  of  these 
houses  on  the  East  side  of  the  Square.  It  was  a  very  fine 
and  noble  mansion  indeed. 

I  threw  open  the  door  of  the  coach  and  handed  Madame 
down  the  steps. 

'This  is  my  house/  she  said.     'Will  you  come  in  with  me?' 

I  followed  marvelling  how  an  actress  could  be  so  great  a 
lady:  but  still  I  remembered  how  she  spoke  familiarly  to 
those  two  villains  in  the  King's  Benc'h  Prison.  The  doors 
flew  open.  Within,  a  row  of  a  dozen  tall  hulking  fellows  in 
livery  stood  up  to  receive  Madame.  She  walked  through 


ioo  The  Orange  Girl 

them  with  an  air  that  belonged  to  a  Duchess.  Then  she 
turned  into  a  small  room  on  the  left  hand  and  threw  herself 
into  a  chair.  'So/  she  said,  'with  these  varlets  I  am  a  great 
lady.  Here,  and  in  your  company,  Will,  I  am  nothing  but 
...'  She  paused  and  sighed.  'I  will  tell  you  another  time.' 

I  think  I  was  more  surprised  at  the  familiarity  with  which 
she  addressed  me  than  with  the  splendour  of  the  place. 
This  room,  for  instance,  though  but  little,  was  lofty  and  its 
walls  were  painted  with  flowers  and  birds:  silver  candle- 
sticks each  with  two  branches,  stood  on  the  mantelshelf 
which  was  a  marvel  of  fine  carving:  a  rich  carpet  covered 
the  floor :  there  were  two  or  three  chairs  and  a  table  in  white 
and  gold.  A  portrait  of  Madame  hung  over  the  fireplace. 

'Forgive  me,  my  friend/  She  sprang  from  the  chair  and 
pulled  the  bell  rope.  'Before  we  talk  you  must  take  some 
dinner/ 

She  gave  her  orders  in  a  quick  peremptory  tone  as  one 
accustomed  to  be  obeyed.  In  a  few  minutes  the  table  was 
spread  with  a  white  cloth  and  laid  out  with  a  cold  chicken, 
a  noble  ham,  a  loaf  of  bread,  and  a  bottle  of  Madeira.  You 
may  imagine  that  I  made  very  little  delay  in  sitting  down  to 
these  good  things.  Heavens!  How  good  they  were  after 
the  prolonged  diet  of  bread  and  cheese ! 

Madame  looked  on  and  waited,  her  chin  in  her  hand. 
When  I  desisted  at  length,  she  poured  out  another  glass  of 
Madeira.  'Tell  me/  she  said.  'Your  sweet  wife  and  the 
lovely  boy — are  they  as  hungry  as  you?' 

I  shook  my  head  sadly. 

'We  shall  see,  presently,  what  we  can  do.  Meantime,  tell 
me  the  whole  story/ 

I  told  her,  briefly,  that  my  story  was  nothing  at  all  but 
the  story  of  a  man  out  of  employment  who  could  not  find 
any  and  was  slowly  dropping  into  shabbiness  of  appearance 
and  weakness  of  body. 

'No  work?  Why,  I  supposed  you  would  go  back  to — to 
— to  something  in  the  City/ 

'Though  my  father  was  a  Knight  and  a  Lord  Mayor,  I 
am  a  simple  musician  by  trade.  I  am  not  a  gentleman/ 

'I  like  you  all  the  better/  she  replied,  smiling.  'I  am 
not  a  gentlewoman  either.  The  actress  is  a  rogue  and  a 
vagabond.  So  is  the  musician  I  suppose/ 

I  stared.  Was  she,  then,  still  an  actress — and  living  in 
this  stately  Palace? 


Out  of  the  Frying  Pan  Into  the  Fire    101 

'You  are  a  musician.  Do  you,  then,  '\vaht  to>  fitid'-  ,w«i)l»k 
as  a  fiddler?' 

'That  is  what  I  am  looking  for.' 

'Let  us  consider.  Do  you  play  like  a  — a — gentleman  or 
like  one  of  the  calling?' 

'I  am  one  of  the  calling.  When  I  tell  you  that  I  used  to 
live  by  fiddling  for  sailors  to  dance ' 

'Say  no  more — say  no  more.  They  are  the  finest  critics 
in  the  world.  If  you  please  them  it  is  enough.  Why 
should  I  not  engage  you,  myself?' 

'You — engage — me  ?    You — Madame  ?' 

'Friend  Will,'  she  laid  her  hand  on  mine,  'there  are  rea- 
sons why  I  wish  you  well  and  would  stand  by  you  if  I  could. 
I  will  tell  you,  another  day,  what  those  reasons  are.  Let 
me  treat  you  as  a  friend.  When  we  are  alone,  I  am  not 
Madame:  I  am  Jenny/ 

There  are  some  women  who  if  they  said  such  a  thing  as 
this,  would  be  taken  as  declaring  the  passion  of  love.  No 
one  could  look  at  Jenny's  face  which  was  all  simplicity  and 
candour  and  entertain  the  least  suspicion  of  such  a  thing. 

'Nay,  I  can  only  marvel,'  I  said.  For  I  still  thought  that 
I  was  talking  to  some  great  lady.  'I  think  that  I  must  be 
dreaming/ 

'Since  you  know  not  where  you  are,  this  is  the  Soho  As- 
sembly and  I  am  Madame  Vallance.' 

I  seemed  to  have  heard  of  Madame  Vallance. 

'You  know  nothing.  That  is  because  you  have  been  in 
the  King's  Bench.  I  will  now  tell  you,  what  nobody  else 
knows,  that  Madame  Vallance  is  Jenny  Wilmot.  I  have 
left  the  stage,  for  a  time,  to  avoid  a  certain  person.  Here, 
if  I  go  among  the  company,  I  can  wear  a  domino  and  re- 
main unknown.  Do  you  know  nothing  about  us?  We 
have  masquerades,  galas,  routs — everything.  Come  with 
me.  I  will  show  you  my  Ball  Room.' 

She  led  me  up  the  grand  staircase  from  the  Hall  into  a 
most  noble  room.  On  the  walls  were  hung  many  mirrors : 
between  the  mirrors  were  painted  Cupids  and  flowers:  rout 
seats  were  placed  all  round  the  room :  the  hanging  candela- 
bra contained  hundreds  of  candles :  at  one  end  stood  a 
music  gallery. 

'Will,'  she  said,  'go  upstairs  and  play  me  something/ 

I  obeyed. 


102  '      The  Orange  Girl 

'  I  found  an  instrument,  which  I  tuned.  Then  I  stood  up 
in  the  gallery  and  played. 

She  stood  below  listening.  'Well  played!'  she  cried. 
'Now  play  me  a  dance  tune.  See  if  you  can  make  me  dance/ 

I  played  a  tune  which  I  had  often  played  to  the  jolly  sail- 
ors. I  know  not  what  it  is  called.  It  is  one  of  those  tunes 
which  run  in  at  the  ears  and  down  to  the  heels  which  it 
makes  as  light  as  a  feather  and  as  quick  silver  for  nimble- 
ness.  In  a  minute  she  was  dancing — with  such  grace,  such 
spirit,  such  quickness  of  motion,  as  if  every  limb  was  with- 
out weight.  And  her  fair  face  smiling  and  her  blue  eyes 
dancing ! — never  was  there  such  a  figure  of  grace :  as  for  the 
step,  it  was  as  if  invented  on  the  spot,  but  I  believe  that  she 
had  learned  it.  Afraid  of  tiring  her,  I  laid  down  the  violin 
and  descended  into  the  hall. 

She  gave  me  both  her  hands.  'Will/  she  said.  'You 
will  make  my  fortune  if  you  consent  to  join  my  orchestra. 
There  never  was  such  playing.  Those  sailors !  How  could 
they  let  you  go?  Now  listen.  I  can  pay  you  thirty  shil- 
lings. Will  you  come  ?  The  Treasury  pays  every  Saturday 
morning.  You  shall  have,  besides,  four  weeks  in  advance. 
Spend  it  in  generous  food  after  your  long  Lent.  Say- 
Will  you  accept?' 

'It  is  too  much,  Jenny/  I  took  her  hand  and  kissed  it. 
'First  you  take  me  out  of  prison:  then  you  give  me  the 
means  of  living.  How  can  I  thank  you  sufficiently?  How 
repay ' 

'There  is  nothing  to  repay.  I  will  tell  you  another  time 
why  I  take  an  interest  in  you.' 

'When  the  most  beautiful  woman  in  the  world ' 

'Stop,  Will.  I  warn  you.  There  must  be  no  love-mak- 
ing/ I  suppose  she  saw  the  irresistible  admiration  in  my 
eyes.  'Oh !  I  am  not  angry.  But  compliments  of  that  kind 
generally  lead  to  love-making.  They  all  try  it,  but  it  is 
quite  useless — now/  she  added  with  a  sigh.  'And  you,  of 
all  men,  must  not/ 

I  made  no  reply,  not  knowing  what  to  say. 

'There  is  another  face  in  your  home,  Will,  that  is  far 
more  beautiful  than  mine.  Think  of  that  face.  Enough 
said/ 

'I  protest '  I  began. 

She  laid  her  hand  upon  my  lips.     'There  must  be  no 


Out  of  the  Frying  Pan  Into  the  Fire    103 

compliments/  she  said.  Her  voice  was  severe  but  her  smil- 
ing eyes  forgave. 

I  left  her  and  hastened  home  with  dancing  feet. 

I  was  returning  with  an  engagement  of  thirty  shillings 
a  week :  I  had  four  weeks'  pay  in  my  pocket :  Fortune 
once  more  smiled  upon  me:  I  ran  in  and  kissed  my  wife 
with  an  alacrity  and  a  cheerfulness  which  rejoiced  her  as 
much  as  it  astonished  her.  I  threw  down  the  money.  'Take 
it,  my  dear/  I  said.  'There  is  more  to  come.  We  are  saved 
again.  Oh!  Alice — we  are  saved — and  by  the  same  hand 
as  before/ 

'I  have  heard  of  Madame  Vallance/  said  Tom,  presently. 
'She  comes  from  no  one  knows  where:  she  keeps  herself 
secluded:  at  the  Assemblies  she  always  wears  a  mask:  the 
people  say  she  is  generous:  some  think  she  is  rich:  others 
that  the  expense  of  the  place  must  break  her/ 

'I  hope  she  is  another  Croesus/  I  said.  'I  hope  that  the 
River  of  Pactolus  will  flow  into  her  lap.  I  hope  she  will 
inherit  the  mines  of  Golgonda.  I  hope  she  will  live  a 
thousand  years  and  marry  a  Prince.  And  we  will  drink 
her  health  in  a  bowl  of  punch  this  very  night/ 


CHAPTER  III 

THE    MASQUERADE 

I  COMMENCED  my  duties  in  the  music  gallery  on  one  of  the 
nights  devoted  to  the  amusement  called  the  Masquerade. 
It  was  an  amusement  new  to  me  and  to  all  except  those 
who  can  afford  to  spend  five  guineas,  besides  the  purchase 
of  a  dress,  on  the  pleasure  of  a  single  night.  I  understand 
the  Masquerade  has  taken  a  great  hold  upon  the  fashionable 
world  and  upon  those  who  have  money  to  spend  and  are 
eager  for  the  excitement  of  a  new  pleasure.  'Give — give* 
is  the  cry  of  those  who  live,  day  by  day,  for  the  pleasure  of 
the  moment. 

Truly  in  a  Masquerade  there  is  everything;  the  novelty 
or  the  beauty  of  the  disguise:  the  music:  the  dancing:  the 
revelry  after  supper :  the  gambling :  the  pursuit  of  beauty  in 
disguise — it  is  wonderful  to  reflect,  in  the  quiet  corner  of 


104  The  Orange  Girl 

the  earth  in  which  I  write,  that,  across  the  Atlantic,  in  Lon- 
don City,  there  are  thousands  who  are  never  happy  save 
when  they  are  crowded  together,  seeking  such  excitement  as 
is  afforded  by  the  masquerade,  the  assembly,  the  promenade 
and  the  pleasure  garden.  Here  we  have  no  such  excite- 
ments and  we  want  none:  life  for  us  flows  in  a  tranquil 
stream :  for  them  it  flows  away  in  waterfalls  and  cataracts, 
leaping  to  the  sea. 

Madame  managed  her  masquerades  as  she  did  every- 
thing, with  the  greatest  care:  she  arranged  everything:  the 
selection  of  the  music:  the  decorations:  the  supper:  even 
the  chalking  of  the  floor.  The  doors  were  thrown  open  at 
eleven.  Long  before  that  hour  the  Square  was  filled  with 
people,  some  were  come  to  see  the  fashionable  throng  arrive 
— the  fine  dresses  of  the  ladies  and  the  masquerading  of  the 
men.  Some  were  come  to  pick  the  pockets  of  the  others. 
There  was  no  confusion :  the  hackney  coaches  and  the  chairs 
•were  directed  by  Madame's  servants,  who  stood  outside,  to 
arrive  by  one  road  and  to  depart  by  another.  Thus,  one 
after  the  other,  without  quarrelling  or  fighting,  drove  to  the 
doors,  deposited  their  company  and  departed.  The  same 
order  was  observed  in  the  departure. 

For  my  own  part,  as  there  was  nothing  to  do  before 
eleven,  I  amused  myself  by  going  round  and  seeing  the 
rooms  all  lit  up  with  candles  in  sconces  or  by  candelabra  and 
painted  with  flowers  and  fruit  and  Cupids  even  to  the  ceil- 
ing, and  hung  with  costly  curtains.  It  is  a  large  and  spa- 
cious house,  of  commanding  appearance,  built  by  an  Earl  of 
Carlisle.  There  is  a  grand  staircase,  broad  and  stately: 
when  a  well-dressed  Company  are  going  up  and  down  it 
looks  like  the  staircase  of  a  Palace :  on  the  landing  I  found 
flowers  in  pots  and  bushes  in  tubs  which  gave  the  place  a 
rural  appearance  and  so  might  lead  the  thoughts  of  the  vis- 
itor insensibly  into  the  country.  There  are  a  great  many 
rooms  in  the  original  House  which  has  been  very  hand- 
somely increased  by  the  addition  of  two  large  chambers,  one 
above  the  other,  built  out  at  the  back,  over  part  of  the  gar- 
den. One  of  these  new  rooms  was  the  Ball  Room 
which  I  have  already  mentioned.  The  other  room  below  it, 
equally  large  but  not  so  high,  was  used  as  the  supper-room. 
It  had  its  walls  painted  with  dancing  Satyrs  and  Fauns: 
gilded  pilasters,  raised  an  inch  or  so,  relieved  the  flatness 
pf  the  wall.  This  was  the  supper-room :  for  the  moment 


Out  of  the  Frying  Pan  Into  the  Fire    105 

it  had  nothing  in  it  but  long  narrow  tables  arranged  down 
the  room  in  rows:  the  servants  were  already  beginning  to 
spread  upon  them  the  napery  and  lay  the  knives  and  forks 
for  supper. 

On  the  ground-floor  on  the  right  hand  of  the  entrance 
hall  was  a  large  room  used  as  a  card  room.  Here  stood  a 
long  table  covered  with  a  green  cloth  for  the  players  of  those 
games  which  require  a  Bank  or  a  large  company.  They  are 
Hazard,  Lansquenet,  Loo,  Faro,  and  I  know  not  how  many 
more.  But,  whatever  their  names,  they  all  mean  the  same 
thing  and  only  one  thing,  viz.,  gambling.  Along  the  wall 
on  either  side  were  small  tables  for  parties  of  two  or  four, 
who  came  to  play  Quadrille,  Whist,  Piquet,  Ecarte,  and  the 
like — games  more  dangerous  to  the  young  and  the  beginner 
than  the  more  noisy  gambling  of  the  crowd.  Candles  stood 
on  all  the  small  tables  and  down  the  middle  of  the  great 
table:  there  were  also  candles  in  sconces  on  the  wall.  As 
yet  none  of  them  were  lit. 

While  I  was  looking  round  the  empty  room,  Madame  her- 
self came  in  dressed  in  white  satin,  and  carrying  her  domino 
in  her  hand. 

'I  look  into  every  room/  she  said,  'before  the  doors  are 
open:  but  into  this  room  I  look  two  or  three  times  every 
evening/ 

'You  come  to  look  at  the  players?' 

'I  have  a  particular  reason  for  coming  here.  I  will  tell 
you  some  time  or  other — perhaps  to-night,  Will.  If  so,  it 
will  be  the  greatest  surprise  of  your  life — the  very  greatest 
surprise.  Yes — I  watch  the  players.  Their  faces  amuse 
me.  When  I  see  a  man  losing  time  after  time,  and  remaining 
calm  and  unmoved,  I  say  to  myself,  "There  is  a  gentleman." 
Play  is  the  finest  test  of  good  breeding.  When  a  man  curses 
his  luck;  curses  his  neighbour  for  bringing  him  bad  luck; 
bangs  the  table  with  his  fist ;  and  calls  upon  all  the  Gods  to 
smite  him  dead,  I  say  to  myself,  "That  is  a  city  spark." 

'I  fear  I  am  a  city  spark/ 

'When  I  see  two  sitting  together  at  a  table  quiet  and  alone 
I  ask  myself  which  is  the  sharper  and  which  is  the  flat.  By 
watching  them  for  a  few  minutes  I  can  always  find  out 
— one  of  them  always  is  the  sharper,  you  see,  and  the  other 
always  the  flat.  And  if  you  watch  them  for  a  few  minutes 
you  can  always  find  out.  Beware  of  this  room,  Will.  Be 
neither  sharper  nor  flat/ 


io6  The  Orange  Girl 

She  turned  and  went  off  to  see  some  other  room. 

Looking  out  at  the  back  I  saw  that  the  garden  had  been 
hung  with  coloured  lamps,  and  looked  gay  and  bright.  It 
was  a  warm  fine  evening :  there  would  be  many  who  would 
choose  the  garden  for  a  promenade.  Other  rooms  there 
were:  the  Blue  Room:  the  Star  Room:  the  Red  Room:  the 
Chinese  Room:  I  know  not  what,  nor  for  what  they  were 
all  used. 

But  the  time  approached.  I  climbed  up  the  steep  stairs 
and  took  my  place  in  the  music  gallery,  where  already  most 
of  the  orchestra  were  assembled :  like  them  I  tuned  my  vio- 
lin, and  then  waited  the  arrival  of  the  Company. 

They  came  by  tickets  which  included  supper.  Each  ticket 
cost  five  guineas,  and  admitted  one  gentleman  or  two  ladies 
including  supper.  It  seems  a  monstrous  price  for  a  single 
evening;  but  the  cost  of  the  entertainment  was  enormous. 
The  ticket  itself  was  a  beautiful  thing  representing  Venus 
with  Cupids.  They  were  gazing  with  interest  upon  a 
Nymph  lying  beside  a  fountain.  She  had,  as  yet,  nothing 
upon  her,  and  she  was  apparently  engaged  in  thinking  what 
she  would  wear  for  the  evening.  A  pretty  thing,  prettily 
drawn.  But  five  guineas  for  a  single  evening! 

As  soon  as  the  doors  were  thrown  open,  a  line  of  footmen 
received  the  company,  took  their  tickets  and  showed  them 
into  the  tea-room  where  that  refreshment  was  offered  before 
the  ball  commenced.  When  this  room  was  full,  the  doors 
leading  to  the  ball-rooms  and  the  other  rooms  were  also 
thrown  open,  and  the  company  streamed  along  the  great 
gallery  which  was  lined  with  flowering  shrubs.  Here  was 
stationed  a  small  string  band  playing  soft  and  pleasing 
music.  Then  they  crowded  up  the  Grand  stair-case.  When 
most  of  the  masqueraders  were  within  the  Ball-room,  and 
before  they  had  done  looking  about  them  and  crying  out  for 
astonishment  at  the  mirrors  and  the  candelabra  and  the 
lights,  we  struck  up  the  music  in  the  gallery,  and  as  soon 
as  order  was  a  little  restored,  the  minuets  began. 

For  my  own  part  I  love  to  look  upon  dancing.  The  coun- 
try-dance expresses  the  happiness  of  youth  and  the  gladness 
of  life.  The  hey  and  jig  are  rustic  joys  which  cannot  keep 
still,  but  must  needs  jump  about  to  show  their  pleasure. 
But  the  minuet  expresses  the  refinement,  the  courtesies,  the 
politeness  of  life.  It  is  artificial,  but  the  politeness  of  Fash- 
ion in  the  Civilized  world  must  be  acknowledged  to  be  an 


Out  of  the  Frying  Pan  Into  the  Fire    1 07 

improvement  on  mere  Nature,  which  is  too  often  barbarous 
in  its  expression  and  coarse  in  its  treatment.  I  know  not 
any  of  our  music  which  could  be  played  to  such  a  dance  of 
savages  as  the  Guinea  Traders  report  from  the  West  Coast 
and  the  Bight  of  Benin. 

The  company  flowed  in  fast.  All,  except  a  few  who  kept 
about  the  doors  and  did  not  venture  in  the  crowd,  were  in 
masquerade  dress,  and  even  those  who  were  not  carried 
dominoes  in  their  hands.  One  would  have  thought  the 
whole  world  had  sent  representatives  to  the  ball.  There 
were  pig-tailed  Chinese;  Dervishes  in  turbans;  American 
Indians  with  tomahawks;  Arabs  in  long  silken  robes;  ne- 
groes and  negresses ;  proud  Castilians ;  Scots  in  plaid ; 
Monks  and  Romish  Priests;  Nuns  and  Sisters;  milkmaids 
in  dowlass;  ploughboys  in  smocks;  lawyers;  soldiers  and 
sailors :  there  were  gods  and  goddesses ;  Venus  came  clad 
much  like  her  figure  in  the  books ;  Diana  carried  her  bow ; 
the  Graces  endeavoured  to  appear  as  they  are  commonlv 
represented :  Apollo  came  with  his  lyre ;  Mars  with  his 
shield  and  spear:  Vulcan  with  his  lame  leg:  Hercules  with 
his  club.  There  were  dozens  of  Cupids :  there  were  dozens 
of  Queens ;  Cleopatra ;  Dido ;  Mary,  Queen  of  Scots :  and 
Queen  Elizabeth.  There  were  famous  kings  as  Henry  the 
Fifth;  Henry  the  Eighth:  Charles  the  First;  and  Charles 
the  Second.  There  were  potentates,  as  the  Pope,  the  Sul- 
tan, the  Grand  Cham,  Prester  John,  and  the  Emperor  of 
China:  there  were  famous  women,  mostly  kings'  favourites, 
as  the  Fair-Haired  Editha:  Fair  Rosamund:  Jane  Shore, 
the  most  beautiful  of  London  maidens:  and  merry  Nell 
Gwynne,  once  an  Orange  Girl:  there  were  half  a  dozen  la- 
dies representing  Joan  of  Arc  in  armour :  there  was  a  bear- 
ward  leading  a  man  dressed  as  a  bear  who  made  as  if  he 
would  hug  the  women  (at  which  they  screamed  in  pre- 
tended affright)  and  danced  to  the  music  of  a  crowd:  there 
were  gipsies  and  fortune-tellers:  there  were  two  girls — no- 
body knew  who  they  were — one  of  whom  danced  on  a  tight- 
rope, while  the  other  turned  somersaults.  There  were  Har- 
lequin, Columbine,  Pantaloon  and  clown,  as  if  straight  from 
Drury  Lane:  there  was  the  showman  who  put  his  show  in 
a  corner  and  loudly  proclaimed  the  wonders  that  were 
within:  there  was  the  Cheap  Jack  in  another  corner,  who 
pretended  to  sell  everything:  there  was  the  itinerant  Quack 
who  bawled  his  nostrums  for  prolonging  life  and  restoring 


io8  The  Orange  Girl 

youth  and  arresting  beauty:  there  was  the  orange  girl,  of 
Drury  Lane,  impudent  and  ready  with  an  answer  and  a 
joke  to  anything:  there  were  dancing-girls  who-  ran  in  and 
out,  cleared  a  space ;  danced :  then  ran  to  another  place  and 
danced  again.  I  learned,  afterwards,  that  the  dancers  and 
tumblers,  with  many  of  the  masks,  were  actors,  actresses, 
and  dancing-girls,  hired  from  the  Theatre  by  Madame  her- 
self, in  order  to  ensure  vivacity  and  activity  and  movement 
in  the  evening.  If  these  things  were  neglected  or  left  to 
the  masquers  themselves,  the  assembly  would  fall  quite  flat, 
very  few  persons  having  the  least  power  to  play  any  part  or 
keep  up  any  character.  Punchinello,  for  instance,  trod  the 
floor  with  a  face  like  a  physician  for  solemnity:  the  clown 
could  not  dance  or  laugh  or  make  other  people  laugh :  and  so 
with  the  women :  they  thought  their  part  was  played  as  soon 
as  they  were  dressed. 

Meantime,  the  music  played  on  without  stopping.  After 
the  minuets,  we  proceeded  to  the  country  dance.  But  you 
must  not  think  that  at  the  Masquerade  we  conducted  our 
dancing  with  the  same  order  and  form  as  an  ordinary  as- 
sembly. I  looked  down  upon  a  scene  which  was  quite  un- 
like the  ordinary  assembly,  and  yet  was  the  most  beautiful, 
the  most  animated,  the  most  entrancing  that  I  had  ever  wit- 
nessed. The  room  was  like  a  flower-bed  in  July  filled  with 
flowers  of  every  colour.  It  was  enough,  at  first,  to  look  at 
the  whole  company,  as  one  might  look  upon  a  garden  filled 
with  flowers.  Presently  I  began  to  detach  couples  or  small 
groups.  First,  I  observed  the  fair  domino  who  lured  on 
the  amorous  youth — dressed,  perhaps,  as  a  monk — by  run- 
ning awray  and  yet  looking  back — a  Parthian  Amazon  of 
Love.  She  must  be  young,  he  thought,  with  such  a 
sprightly  air  and  so  easy  a  step :  she  must  be  beautiful,  with 
such  a  figure,  to  match  her  face :  she  must  be  rich,  with  such 
a  habit — with  those  gold  chains  and  bracelets  and  pearls. 
Presently  the  young  fellow  caught  his  goddess:  he  spoke 
to  her  and  he  led  her  to  a  seat  among  the  plants  where  they 
could  sit  a  little  retired  and  apart.  But  from  the  gal- 
lery I  could  see  them.  He  took  her  hand:  he  pressed 
her,  saying  I  know  not  what:  presently  she  took  off 
her  domino:  arid  disclosed  loveliness:  the  youth  fell  into 
raptures:  she  held  him  off:  she  put  on  her  domino  again: 
she  rose:  he  begged  for  a  little  more  discourse — it  was  a 
pretty  pantomime — she  refused:  she  went  back  to  the  gen- 


Out  of  the  Frying  Pan  Into  the  Fire    109 

eral  company:  they  remained  together  all  the  night:  when 
they  went  away  in  the  morning  he  led  her  out  whispering, 
and  one  hopes  that  this  was  the  beginning  of  a  happy  match. 
The  removal  of  the  domino  to  let  the  gentleman  see  the 
masked  face  was,  I  observed,  very  common,  yet  it  was  not 
always  that  the  little  comedy  ended,  as  they  say,  happily. 
Sometimes  the  lady,  after  showing  her  face,  would  run  away 
and  exchange  a  kerchief,  or  a  mantle,  with  a  friend  so  as 
to  mystify  and  bewilder  her  pursuer  who  could  not  tell  what 
had  become  of  his  lovely  partner. 

Such  were  the  little  comedies  performed  before  the  eyes 
of  the  spectators  from  the  music  gallery.  As  for  the  rest, 
the  mountebanks  pranced,  and  the  dancing-girls  and  the 
tumbling-girls  capered,  and  they  all  laughed  and  sang  and 
gave  themselves  wholly  to  the  mirth  and  merriment  of  the 
moment. 

Some  of  the  men  I  observed  were  drunk  when  they  ar- 
rived :  others  pretended  to  be  drunk  in  order  that  they  might 
roll  about  and  catch  hold  of  the  girls.  It  has  always  been 
to  me  a  marvel  that  women  do  not  mark  their  displeasure, 
at  the  intrusion  upon  their  pleasures,  of  men  who  are  drunk. 
They  mar  all  the  enjoyment  of  society  whether  at  the  the- 
atre, or  at  such  assemblies  as  this,  or  in  the  drawing-room. 
Ladies  of  fashion  have  it  in  their  power  to  put  an  end  to 
the  habit  at  a  stroke  of  the  pen,  so  to  speak :  namely,  by  for- 
bidding the  presence  at  their  assemblies  of  gentlemen  in 
liquor:  they  should  be  refused  admission  however  great 
their  position,  even  if  their  breast  is  ablaze  with  stars. 

There  were  many  stars  present,  and  with  them  ladies 
whose  head-dresses  were  covered  with  diamonds.  It  was 
rumoured  that  Madame  retained  in  her  service  for  these 
occasions,  a  body  of  stout  fellows  on  the  watch  for  any  at- 
tempt upon  the  jewels.  It  was  also  rumoured  that  there 
were  R — 1  P — s  present  at  the  Masquerade :  the  young  D — 
of  Y — k,  for  instance,  it  was  said  positively,  was  among 
the  company,  but  so  disguised  that  none  could  recognise 
him.  Some  of  the  ladies  wore  no  dominoes ;  but  these  per- 
sons, I  observed,  did  not  leave  their  partners  and  took  no 
share  in  the  merriment.  Indeed,  they  seemed,  for  the  most 
part,  not  to  laugh  at  the  fun :  I  suppose  they  found  it  some- 
what low  and  vulgar.  In  our  gallery  they  were  well  known. 
'That  is  the  Duchess  of  Q —  with  the  rubies :  the  lady  with 
the  diamond  spray  in  her  hair  is  Lady  H — :  the  lady  with 


no  The  Orange  Girl 

the  strings  of  pearls  round  her  neck  and  arms  is  the  Lady 
Florence  D — /  and  so  forth — with  scandalous  stories  and 
gossip  which  belonged,  I  thought,  more  to  the  footmen  in  the 
"hall  than  to  the  music  gallery.  We  had  no  such  talk  at  the 
Dog  and  Duck.  lDerhaps,  however,  the  reason  for  our  reti- 
cence in  that  favourite  retreat  and  rendezvous  of  the  aris- 
tocracy was  that  there  were  no  women  at  the  Dog  and  Duck 
whose  lives  were  not  scandalous.  The  stories,  therefore, 
would  become  monotonous. 

At  one,  a  procession  was  formed  for  supper.  There  was 
no  order  or  rank  observed  because  there  were  plenty  of 
persons  who  masqueraded  as  noblemen,  and  it  would  take 
too  long  to  examine  into  their  claims.  The  small  band  of 
stringed  instruments,  of  which  I  have  spoken,  headed  the 
procession,  played  the  company  into  the  supper-room,  and 
played  while  they  were  taking  supper.  There  was  not 
room  for  more  than  half  in  the  supper-room :  the  rest  waited 
their  turn. 

'It  is  a  rest  for  us,'  said  the  First  violin,  'we  shall  get 
some  supper  downstairs.  Eat  and  drink  plenty,  for  what 
we  have  done  already  is  a  flea-bite  compared  with  what  we 
have  to  do/ 

It  was,  indeed.  They  came  back,  their  cheeks  flushed, 
their  eyes  bright  with  wine.  Some  of  them  too  tipsy  to  stand, 
rolled  upon  the  rout  seats,  and  so  fell  fast  asleep. 

I  observed  that  the  great  ladies  and  the  gentlemen  with 
them  did  not  return  after  supper:  their  absence  removed 
some  restraint :  and  the  gentlemen  who  had  arrived  without 
a  masquerade  dress  did  not  come  back  after  supper.  The 
company  was  thinner,  but  it  was  much  louder:  there  was 
no  longer  any  pretence  of  keeping  up  a  character:  the 
Quack  left  off  bawling  his  wares:  the  showman  deserted 
his  show:  the  fortune-tellers  left  their  tents:  the  Hermit 
left  his  cell:  the  dancing  and  tumbling  girls  joined  in  the 
general  throng:  there  were  many  sets  formed  but  little  reg- 
ular dancing:  all  were  broken  up  by  rushes  of  young  men 
more  than  half  drunk :  they  caught  the  girls  and  kissed  them 
— nothing  loth,  though  they  shrieked:  it  was  a  proof  that 
the  gentlewomen  had  all  gone,  that  no  one  resented  this 
rudeness — either  a  partner  or  the  girl  herself :  the  scene  be- 
came an  orgy:  all  together  were  romping,  touzling,  laugh- 
ing, shrieking,  and  quarrelling. 

Still  the  music  kept  up:  still  we  played  with  unflinching 


Out  of  the  Frying  Pan  Into  the  Fire    1 1 1 

arm  and  all  the  spirit  which  can  be  put  into  them,  the  most 
stirring  dance  tunes.  At  last  they  left  off  trying  to  dance: 
some  of  the  women  lay  back  on  the  rout  seats  partly  with 
liquor  overcome  and  partly  with  fatigue :  men  were  sprawl- 
ing unable  to  get  up :  bottles  of  wine  were  brought  up  from 
the  supper-room  and  handed  round.  The  men  grew  every 
minute  noisier :  the  women  shrieked  louder  and  more  shrilly 
— perhaps  with  cause.  And  every  minute  some  slipped 
away  and  the  crowd  grew  thinner,  till  there  were  left  little 
more  than  a  heap  of  drunken  men  and  weary  women. 

At  last  word  came  up  that  it  was  five  .o'clock,  the  time 
for  closing. 

The  conductor  laid  down  his  violin :  the  night's  work  was 
over :  we  would  go. 

The  people  below  clamoured  for  more  music,  but  in  vain. 
Then  they,  too,  began  to  stream  out  noisily. 

As  I  passed  the  supper-room  I  saw  that  half  a  dozen 
young  fellows  had  got  in  and  were  noisily  clamouring  for 
champagne.  The  waiters  who  were  clearing  the  supper 
took  no  notice.  Then  one  of  them  with  a  bludgeon  set  to 
work  and  began  to  smash  plates,  glasses,  dishes,  bottles, 
windows,  in  a  kind  of  a  frenzy  of  madness  or  mischief. 
Half  a  dozen  stout  fellows  rushed  at  him:  carried  him  out 
of  the  supper-room  and  so  into  the  Square  outside.  It  was 
a  fitting  end  for  the  Masquerade. 

While  I  was  looking  on,  I  was  touched  on  the  arm  by  a 
mask.  I  knew  her  by  her  white  satin  dress  for  Madame. 

I  had  seen  her  from  time  to  time  flitting  about  the  room, 
sometimes  with  a  partner,  sometimes  alone.  She  was  con- 
versing one  moment  with  a  gentleman  whose  star  betokened 
his  rank,  and  the  next  with  one  of  her  paid  actors  or  ac- 
tresses, directing  the  sports.  I  had  seen  her  dancing  two 
minuets  in  succession  each  with  a  grace  and  dignity  which 
no  other  woman  in  the  room  could  equal. 

'A  noisy  end,  Will,  is  it  not?  We  always  finish  this 
way.  The  young  fellow  who  smashed  the  glass  is  Lord  St. 
Osyth.  To-morrow  morning  he  will  have  to  pay  the  bill. 
'Tis  a  good-natured  fool.  See:  they  are  carrying  out  the 
last  of  the  drunken  hogs.  Faugh !  How  drunk  they  are !' 

'I  have  watched  you  all  the  evening,  Madame.  Believe 
me,  there  were  none  of  the  ladies  who  approached  you  in 
the  minuet.' 

'Naturally,  Will.    For  I  have  danced  it  on  the  stage,  where 


1 1 2  The  Orange  Girl 

we  can  at  least  surpass  the  minuet  of  the  Assembly.  What 
do  they  understand  of  action  and  carriage,  and  how  to 
bear  the  body  and  how  to  use  the  arms  and  how  to  handle 
the  fan  ?  But  it  was  not  to  talk  about  my  dancing — Will — 
I  said  that  perhaps  I  should  be  able  to  show  you  something 
or  to  tell  you  something — that  might  astonish  you.  Come 
with  me :  but  first — I  would  not  have  you  recognised,  put  on 
this  domino' — there  were  a  good  many  lying  about — 'So — 
Now  follow  me  and  prepare  for  the  greatest  surprise  of  your 
whole  life.' 

In  the  hall  there  were  still  many  waiting  for  their  car- 
riages and  chairs.  Outside,  there  was  a  crowd  now  closing 
in  upon  the  carriages,  and  now  beaten  back  by  Madame's 
men  who  were  armed  with  clubs  and  kept  the  pickpockets 
and  thieves  at  bay.  And  there  was  a  good  deal  of  bawling, 
cursing,  and  noise. 

Madame  led  the  way  into  the  card-room.  Play  had  ap- 
parently been  going  on  all  night:  the  candles  on  the  table 
were  burning  low:  the  players  had  nearly  all  gone:  the 
servants  were  taking  the  shillings  from  under  the  candle- 
sticks: at  the  long  table,  two  or  three  were  still  left:  they 
were  not  playing :  they  were  settling  up  their  accounts. 

A  young  fellow  got  up  as  we  came  in.  'What's  the  good 
of  crying,  Harry  ?'  he  said,  to  his  companion.  Tve  dropped 
five  hundred.  Well — better  luck  to-morrow/ 

'Poor  lad !'  said  Madame.  'That  morrow  will  never  come. 
'Tis  a  pretty  lad:  I  am  sorry  for  him.  He  will  end  in  a 
Debtors'  Prison  or  he  will  carry  a  musket  in  the  ranks/ 

They  were  settling,  one  by  one,  with  the  player  who  had 
held  the  Bank  for  the  evening.  There  were  no  disputes: 
they  had  some  system  by  means  of  which  their  loses  or 
gains  were  represented  by  counters.  The  business  of  the 
conclusion  was  the  paying  or  receiving  of  money  as  shown 
by  their  counters  which  were  accepted  as  money.  For  in- 
stance, if  a  person  took  so  many  counters  he  incurred  so 
much  liability.  But,  I  do  not  understand  what  were  the 
rules.  The  man  who  held  the  Bank  was,  I  heard  after- 
wards, one  of  those  who  live  by  keeping  the  Bank  against  all 
comers.  He  was  an  elderly  man  of  fine  manners,  extremely 
courtly  in  his  behaviour  and  his  dress.  One  by  one  he  re- 
ceived the  players,  of  whom  there  were  a  dozen  or  so,  and 
examined  their  liabilities  or  their  claims.  There  was  left 
but  one  of  the  players,  a  man  whose  back  was  turned  to  me. 


Out  of  the  Frying  Pan  Into  the  Fire    1 1 3 

'Sir/  he  said  politely,  'I  am  grieved  indeed  to  keep  a  gen- 
tleman waiting  so  long.  Let  me  now  release  you.  I  hope, 
Sir,  that  the  balance  will  prove  in  your  favour.  It  pleases 
me,  believe  me,  that  a  gentleman  should  leave  my  table  the 
winner.  So,  Sir,  thank  you.  I  perceive,  Sir,  that  your 
good  fortune  has  deserted  you  for  this  evening.  I  trust  it  is 
but  a  temporary  cloud.  After  all  it  is  a  trifle — a  bagatelle 
— a  mere  matter  of  one  hundred  and  fifty-five  guineas — one 
hundred  and  fifty-five.  Your  Honour  is  not,  perhaps,  good 
at  figures,  but,  should  you  choose  to  verify ' 

The  other  man  whose  back  and  shoulders  were  still  the 
only  part  of  him  presented  to  my  view,  snatched  the  paper 
and  looked  at  it  and  threw  it  on  the  table. 

'It  is  right,  Sir?' 

'I  suppose  it  is  right.  The  luck  was  against  me,  as  usual ; 
the  luck  never  is  for  me/ 

I  knew  the  voice  and  started. 

Madame  whispered  in  my  ear  softly.  'The  greatest  sur- 
prise of  your  life/ 

•  'One  hundred  and  fifty-five  guineas/  said  the  gentleman 
who  kept  the  Bank.  'If  you  are  not  able  to  discharge  the 
liability  to-night,  Sir,  I  shall  be  pleased  to  wait  upon  you  to- 
morrow/ 

'No!  No!  I  can  pay  my  way  still — pay  my  way/  He 
pulled  out  a  long  purse  filled  with  guineas. 

'Your  luck  will  certainly  turn,  Sir,  before  long.  Why 
I  have  seen  instances ' 

'Damn  it,  Sir,  leave  me  and  my  affairs  alone.  My  luck 
never  will  turn.  Don't  I  know  my  own  affairs  ?' 

The  voice  could  be  none  other  than  my  cousin  Matthew's. 
I  was  startled.  My  head  which  had  been  filled  with  the 
noise  of  the  music  and  the  excitement  of  the  revelry  be- 
came clear  at  once  and  attentive  and  serious.  My  cousin 
Matthew.  Impossible  not  to  know  that  voice! 

He  poured  out  the  guineas  on  the  table  and  began  to 
count  them,  dividing  them  into  heaps  of  ten.  Then  he 
counted  them  over  again,  very  slowly,  and,  at  last,  with 
greatest  reluctance  passed  them  over  to  the  other  player,  who 
in  his  turn  counted  them  over,  taking  up  the  pieces  and  bit- 
ing them  in  order  to  see  if  they  were  good. 

'I  thank  you,  Sir/  he  said,  gravely.  'I  trust  that  on  a  fu- 
ture occasion ' 

Matthew  waved  his  hand  impatiently.    The  other  turned 


114  The  Orange  Girl 


and  walked  down  the  room.  The  candles  were  mostly  out 
by  this  time;  only  two  or  three  were  left  on  the  point  of 
expiring:  the  room  was  in  a  kind  of  twilight.  Matthew 
turned  his  head — it  zvas  my  cousin:  he  seemed  not  to  see 
us:  he  sank  into  a  chair  and  laid  his  head  in  his  hands 
groaning. 

No  one  was  left  in  the  room  except  Madame,  Matthew 
and  myself. 

Madame  stepped  forward :  the  table  was  between  her  and 
my  cousin.  As  for  me  I  kept  in  the  background  watching 
and  listening.  What  might  this  thing  mean?  Matthew, 
the  sober,  upright,  religious  London  citizen!  Matthew  the 
worthy  descendant  of  the  great  Puritan  preacher!  Mat- 
thew the  denouncer  of  wicked  musicians!  Matthew  the 
scourge  of  frivolity  and  vice!  Matthew,  my  supplanter! 
Matthew  in  a  gaming  room!  Matthew  playing  all  night 
long  and  losing  a  hundred  and  fifty-five  guineas  in  a  single 
night !  What  was  one  to  believe  next  ? 

Jenny  bent  over  the  table :  she  still  kept  on  her  domino. 

'Mr.  Matthew  Halliday,'  she  said. 

He  lifted  his  head,  stupidly. 

'I  congratulate  you,  Mr.  Matthew  Halliday/  she  went  on. 
'You  have  passed  a  most  pleasant  and  profitable  evening. 
A  hundred  and  fifty-five  guineas !  It  is  nothing,  of  course, 
to  a  rich  merchant  'like  yourself/ 

'Who  are  you?'  he  asked.     'What  concern  is  it  of  yours?' 

'I  am  one  who  knows  you.  One  who  knows  you  already, 
and  too  well/ 

He  stood  up.  'I  am  going,  Mistress/  he  said — 'unless 
you  have  something  else  to  say/ 

'Mr.  Halliday — you  lost  two  hundred  guineas  last  night, 
and  on  Sunday  you  lost  four  hundred/ 

'Zounds,  Miss  or  Mistress/  how  do  you  know  ?' 

'I  know  because  I  am  told.  You  are  a  very  rich  man,  Mr. 
Halliday,  are  you  not?  You  must  be  to  lose  so  much  every 
night.  You  must  be  very  rich  indeed.  You  have  whole 
fleets  of  your  own,  and  Quays  and  Warehouses  filled  with 
goods — and  you  inherited  a  great  fortune  only  two  years 
ago/ 

He  sank  back  in  a  chair  and  gazed  stupidly  upon  her. 

'How  speeds  your  noble  trade?  How  fares  it  with  your 
fleets  ?  How  much  is  left  of  your  great  fortune  ?' 

He  growled,  but  made  no  reply.     Curiosity  and  wonder 


Out  of  the  Frying  Pan  Into  the  Fire    115 

seized  him  and  held  him.  Besides,  what  reply  could  he 
make? 

'Who  are  you  ?'  he  asked. 

'I  will  tell  you,  perhaps.  How  do  you  stand  with  Mr. 
Probus?' 

He  sprang  to  his  feet  again.  'This  is  too  much.  How 
dare  you  speak  of  my  private  affairs?  What  do  you  know 
about  Mr.  Probus?' 

'How  long  is  it,  Mr.  Halliday,  since  you  agreed  with 
Mr.  Probus  that  your  cousin  should  be  locked  up  in  a 
Debtors'  Prison  there  to  remain  till  he  died,  or  sold  his 
birthright  ?' 

He  answered  with  a  kind  of  roar,  as  if  he  had  no  words 
left.  He  stood  before  her — the  table  between — half  in  ter- 
ror— half  in  rage.  Who  was  this  woman  ?  Besides,  he  was 
already  very  nearly  beside  himself  over  the  long  continu- 
ance of  his  bad  luck. 

'Who  are  you?'  he  asked  again.  'What  do  you  know 
about  my  cousin?' 

'I  will  tell  you,  directly,  who  I  am.  About  your  cousin, 
Matthew,  I  warn  you  solemnly.  The  next  attempt  you 
make  upon  his  life  and  liberty  will  bring  upon  your  head — 
yours — not  to  speak  of  the  others — the  greatest  disaster  that 
you  can  imagine,  or  can  dread.  The  greatest  disaster,'  she 
repeated  solemnly,  'that  you  can  imagine  or  can  dread.'  She 
looked  like  a  Prophetess,  standing  before  him  with  hand 
raised  and  with  solemn  voice. 

'This  is  fooling.     What  do  you  know?    Who  are  you?' 

'I  cannot  tell  what  kind  of  disaster  it  will  be — the  greatest 
— the  worst  possible — it  will  be.  Be  warned.  Keep  Mr. 
Probus  at  arm's  length  or  he  will  ruin  you — he  will  ruin  you, 
unless  he  has  ruined  you  already.' 

'You  cannot  frighten  me  with  bugaboo  stories.  If  you  will 
not  tell  me  who  you  are.  I  shall  go.' 

She  tore  off  her  glove.  'Does  this  hand,'  she  said,  'remind 
you  of  nothing?' 

On  the  third  finger  of  the  white  hand  was  a  wedding-ring 
which  I  had  never  seen  there  before. 

He  stared  at  the  hand.  Perhaps  he  suspected.  I  think 
he  did.  No  one  who  had  once  seen  that  hand  could  possibly 
forget  it. 

She  tore  off  her  domino.  'You  have  doubtless  forgotten, 
Matthew,  by  this  time,  the  face — of  your  wife.' 


Ii6  The  Orange  Girl 

He  cursed  her.  He  stood  up  and  cursed  her  in  round 
terms.  I  don't  know  why.  He  accused  her  of  nothing. 
But  he  cursed  her.  She  was  the  origin  and  cause  of  his 
bad  luck. 

I  would  have  interfered.  'Let  be — let  be/  she  said.  'The 
time  will  surely  come  when  the  ruin  which  I  have  foretold 
will  fall  upon  him.  Let  us  wait  till  then.  That  will  be 
sufficient  punishment  for  him.  I  see  it  coming — I  know  not 
when.  I  see  it  coming.  Let  him  curse/ 

He  desisted.  He  ran  out  of  the  room  without  an'other 
word. 

She  looked  after  him  with  a  deep  sigh. 

'I  told  you,  Will,  that  I  had  a  surprise  for  you — the 
greatest  surprise  of  your  life.  I  will  tell  you  more  to-mor- 
row if  you  will  come  in  the  afternoon.  You  shall  hear  more 
about  Matthew,  my  husband  Matthew.  Get  you  gone  now 
and  home  to  bed  with  all  the  speed  you  may.  Good-night, 
cousin  Will — cousin  Will.' 

I  left  her  as  I  was  bidden.  I  walked  home  through  the 
deserted  streets  of  early  morning.  My  brain  was  burning 
Matthew  the  gambler!  Matthew  the  husband  of  Jenny! 
Matthew  the  gambler.  Why — everything  shouted  the  word 
as  I  passed:  the  narrow  streets  of  Soho:  the  water  lapping 
the  arches  of  Westminster  Bridge:  the  keen  air  blowing 
over  the  Bank;  all  shouted  the  words — 'Matthew  the  gam- 
bler! Matthew  the  husband  of  Jenny!  Matthew  the  gam- 
bler!' And  when  I  lay  down  to  sleep  the  words  that  rang 
in  my  ear  were  'Matthew  my  husband — Cousin  Will! — 
Cousin  Will!' 


CHAPTER  IV 

WHO  SHE  WAS 

'You  now  know,  Will,'  said  Jenny,  when  I  called  next  day, 
'why  I  have  been  interested  in  you,  since  I  first  saw  you. 
Not  on  account  of  your  good  looks,  Sir,  though  I  confess 
you  are  a  very  pretty  fellow :  nor  on  account  of  your  play- 
ing, which  is  spirited  and  true ;  but  because  you  are  my  first 
cousin  by  marriage.' 

She  received  me,  sitting  in  the  small  room  on  the  left  of 


Out  of  the  Frying  Pan  Into  the  Fire    117 

the  Hall.  The  great  house  was  quite  empty,  save  for  the 
servants,  who  were  always  clearing  away  the  remains  of 
one  fete  and  arranging  for  another.  Their  footsteps  re- 
sounded in  the  vacant  corridors  and  their  voices  echoed  in 
the  vacant  chambers. 

'Jenny,  I  have  been  able  to  think  of  nothing  else.  I 
could  not  sleep  for  thinking  of  it.  I  am  more  and  more 
amazed/ 

'I  knew  you  would  be.  Well,  Will,  I  wanted  to  have  a 
long  talk  with  you.  I  have  a  great  deal  to  say.  First,  I 
shall  give  you  some  tea — believe  me,  it  is  far  better  for  clear- 
ing the  head  after  a  night  such  as  last  night,  than  Madeira. 
I  have  a  great  deal  to  tell  you — I  fear  you  will  despise  me — 
but  I  will  hide  nothing.  I  am  resolved  to  hide  nothing  from 
you/ 

Meantime  the  words  kept  ringing  in  my  ears.  'Matthew 
a  gambler !  The  religious  Matthew !  To  whom  music  was 
a  snare  of  the  Devil  and  the  musician  a  servant  of  the 
Devil!  The  steady  Matthew!  The  irreproachable  Mat- 
thew !' 

Yet,  since  I  had  always  known  him  to  be  a  violator  of 
truth ;  a  slanderer  and  a  backbiter,  why  not,  also,  a  gambler  ? 
Why  not  also  a  murderer — a  forger — anything?  I  was  to 
find  out  before  long  that  he  was  quite  ready  to  become  the 
former  of  these  also,  upon  temptation.  Yet  the  thing  was 
wonderful,  even  after  I  had  actually  seen  it  and  proved  it. 
And  again,  Matthew  married!  Not  to  a  sober  and  godly 
citizen's  daughter,  but  to  an  actress  of  Drury  Lane  Theatre ! 
Matthew,  to  whom  the  theatre  was  as  the  mouth  of  the  Bot- 
tomless Pit!  Who  could  believe  such  a  thing? 

As  for  what  follows,  Jenny  did  not  tell  me  the  whole  in 
this  one  afternoon.  I  have  put  together,  as  if  it  was  all  one 
conversation,  what  took  several  days  or  perhaps  several 
weeks. 

'You  think  it  so  wonderful,  Will/  Jenny  said,  reading 
my  thoughts  in  my  face.  'For  my  own  part  it  is  never 
wonderful  that  a  man  should  gamble,  or  drink,  or  throw 
himself  away  upon  an  unworthy  mistress.  Every  man  may 
go  mad :  it  is  part  of  man's  nature :  women,  never,  save  for 
love  and  jealousy  and  the  like.  Men  are  so  made:  madness 
seizes  them:  down  they  go  to  ruin  and  the  grave.  It  is 
Strong  drink  with  some :  and  avarice  with  some :  and  gaming 


n8  The  Orange  Girl 

with  some.  Your  cousin  Matthew  is  as  mad  as  an  Abram 
man.' 

She  was  silent  for  a  while.  Then  she  went  on  again.  I 
have  written  it  down  much  as  if  all  that  follows  was  a  single 
speech.  It  was  broken  up  by  my  interruptions  and  by  her 
pauses  and  movements.  For  she  was  too  quick  and  restless 
to  sit  down  while  she  was  speaking.  She  would  spring  from 
her  chair  and  walk  about  the  room ;  'she  would  stand  at  the 
window,  and  drum  at  the  panes  of  glass:  she  would  stand 
over  the  fireplace ;  she  would  look  in  the  round  mirror  hang- 
ing on  the  wall.  She  had  a  thousand  restless  ways.  Some- 
times she  stood  behind  me  and  laid  a  hand  on  my  shoulder 
as  if  she  was  ashamed  for  me  to  look  upon  her. 

It  was  a  wonderful  tale  she  told  me :  more  wonderful  that 
a  woman  who  had  gone  through  that  companionship  should 
come  out  of  it,  filled  through  and  through,  like  a  sponge, 
with  the  knowledge  of  wickedness  and  found  in  childhood 
with  those  who  practise  wickedness,  yet  should  be  herself 
so  free  from  all  apparent  stain  or  taint  of  it.  Surely,  unless 
the  face,  the  eyes,  the  voice,  the  language,  the  thoughts,  can 
all  lie  together,  this  woman  was  one  of  the  purest  and  most 
innocent  of  Heaven's  creatures. 

It  is  not  always  the  knowledge  of  evil  that  makes  a  woman 
wicked.  Else,  if  you  think  of  it,  there  would  be  no  good 
woman  at  all  among  us.  Consider :  it  is  only  a  question  of 
degree.  A  child  born  in  the  Mint ;  or  in  Fullwood's  Rents ; 
or  in  St.  Giles's:  or  in  Turnmill  Street  learns,  one  would 
think,  everything  that  is  vile.  But  children  do  not  always 
inquire  into  the  meaning  of  what  they  hear :  most  things  that 
they  see  or  hear  may  pass  off  them  like  water  from  a  duck's 
back.  Their  best  safe-guard  is  their  want  of  curiosity.  Be- 
sides, it  is  not  only  in  St.  Giles's  that  children  hear  things 
that  are  kept  from  them :  in  the  respectable  part  of  the  city, 
in  Cheapside  itself,  they  can  hear  the  low  language  and  the 
vile  sayings  and  the  blasphemous  oaths  of  the  common  sort. 
Children  are  absorbed  by  their  own  pursuits  and  thoughts. 
The  grown-up  world :  the  working  world,  does  not  belong  to 
them;  they  see  and  see  not;  they  hear  and  hear  not;  they 
cannot  choose,  but  see  and  hear:  yet  they  inquire  not  into 
the  meaning. 

'Will/  she  said,  'I  would  I  had  never  heard  your  name. 
It  has  been  an  unlucky  name  to  me — and  perhaps  it  will  be 
more  unlucky  still.'  I  know  not  if  she  was  here  foretelling 


Out  of  the  Frying  Pan  Into  the  Fire    1 1 9 

what  certainly  happened,  afterwards.  'Your  cousin,  Mat- 
thew, is  no  common  player,  who  carries  a  few  guineas  in  his 
pocket  and  watches  them  depart  with  a  certain  interest  and 
even  anxiety  and  then  goes  away.  This  man  is  a  fierce, 
thirsty,  insatiable  gambler.  There  is  a  play  called  The 
Gamester'  in  which  the  hero  is  such  an  one.  He  plays  like 
this  hero  with  a  thirst  that  cannot  be  assuaged.  He  plays 
every  night:  he  has,  I  believe,  already  ruined  himself:  yet 
he  cannot  stop:  he  would  play  away  the  whole  world  and 
then  would  stake  his  soul,  unless  he  had  first  sold  his  soul 
for  money  to  play  with.  Soul  ?  If  he  has  any  soul — but  I 
know  not/ 

'You  amaze  me,  Jenny.  Indeed,  I  am  overwhelmed  with 
amazement.  I  cannot  get  the  words  out  of  my  head,  "Mat- 
thew a  gambler !  Matthew  a  gambler !"  ; 

'Yes — Matthew  a  gambler.  He  has  been  a  gambler  in  a 
small  way  for  many  years.  When  he  got  possession  of  your 
father's  money  and  the  management  of  that  House,  he  be- 
came a  gambler  in  a  large  way.  I  say  that  I  believe  he  is 
already  well-nigh  ruined.  You  have  seen  him  on  one  night, 
Will ;  he  is  at  the  same  game  every  night.  I  have  had  him 
watched — I  know.  His  luck  is  such  as  the  luck  of  men  like 
that  always  is — against  him  continually.  He  never  wins :  or 
if  ever,  then  only  small  sums  as  will  serve  to  encourage  him. 
There  is  no  evening  in  the  week,  not  even  Sunday,  when  he 
does  not  play.  I  have  reason  to  know — I  will  tell  you  why, 
presently — that  he  has  already  lost  a  great  fortune.' 

The  fortune  that  my  father  left  to  him.  It  should  have 
been  mine.' 

Then,  my  poor  Will,  it  never  will  be  yours.  For  it  is 
gone.  I  learned,  six  months  ago,  that  his  business  is  im- 
paired: the  credit  of  the  House  is  shaken.  Worse  than 
this,  Will' — she  laid  her  hand  on  my  arm — 'he  had  then, 
already,  borrowed  large  sums  of  Mr.  Probus,  and  as  he 
could  not  pay  he  was  borrowing  more.  There  is  the  danger 
for  you!' 

'What  danger?' 

'You  musicians  live  in  the  clouds.  Why  does  Matthew 
continue  to  borrow  money?  He  pretends  that  he  wants  to 
put  it  into  the  business.  Really,  he  gambles  with  it.  Why 
does  Probus  continue  to  lend  him  money  ?  Probus  does  not 
suspect  the  truth.  In  the  hope  that  he  will  presently  have 
such  a  hold  over  Matthew  that  he  will  get  possession  of  the 


1 20  The  Orange  Girl 

business,  become  a  partner  and  turn  out  Matthew  and  your 
uncle.  It  looks  splendid.  All  these  ships:  the  wharf  cov- 
ered with  goods:  but  the  ships  are  mortgaged  and  their 
cargoes  are  mortgaged:  and  the  interest  on  Probus's  loans 
can  only  be  paid  by  borrowing  more.  In  a  very  short  time, 
Will,  the  bubble  will  burst.  The  situation  is  already  dan- 
gerous ;  it  will  then  become  full  of  peril.' 

'Why  dangerous  to  me?     I  have  borrowed  no  money/ 

'You  are  a  very  simple  person,  Will.  They  put  you  into 
the  King's  Bench.  Yet  you  don't  understand.  I  do.  Mat- 
thew wanted  to  borrow  money  on  the  security  of  that  suc- 
cession. Probus  would  'have  lent  him  money  on  that 
security.  Probus  would  have  had  another  finger  in  the  pie. 
He  did  not  know,  then,  what  he  will  very  soon  find  out,  that 
all  the  money  he  has  already  advanced  to  his  rich  client  is 
lost.  Then  it  was  a  mere  temptation  to  Matthew  to  put  you 
under  pressure :  now  it  will  become  a  necessity  to  make  you 
submit:  a  necessity  for  both,  and  they  are  a  pair  of  equal 
villains/ 

'Last  night  you  warned  Matthew.  Jenny,  your  words 
seemed  to  be  no  common  warning.  You  know  something 
or  you  would  not  have  pronounced  that  solemn  warning/ 

'Every  woman  is  a  prophetess,'  she  replied,  gravely.  'Oh! 
I  can  sometimes  foretell  things.  Not  always:  not  when  I 
wish :  not  as  I  wish.  The  prophecy  comes  to  me.  I  know 
not  how  it  comes :  and  I  cannot  expect  it  or  wait  for  it.  Last 
night,  suddenly,  I  saw  a  vision  of  villainy,  I  know  not  what. 
It  was  directed  against  you  and  Alice — and  the  villains — 
among  them  was  Matthew — were  driven  back  with  whips. 
They  fled  howling.  Will,  this  Vision  makes  me  speak/ 

This  kin'd  of  talk  was  new  to  me :  I  confess  it  made  me 
uneasy. 

'Well,  you  now  know  the  truth.  Your  cousin  has  de- 
famed and  slandered  you:  without  relenting  and  Without 
ceasing.  So  long  as  it  was  possible  to  do  you  a  mischief  with 
your  father  he  did  it :  he  has  robbed  you  of  your  inheritance : 
well :  you  can  now,  if  you  please,  revenge  yourself/ 

'Revenge  myself?     How?' 

'You  will  not  only  revenge  yourself :  you  may  make  it  im- 
possible for  your  cousin  to  do  you  any  further  injury/ 

'Does  he  wish  to  do  me  any  further  injury?' 

'Will,  I  suppose  that  you  are  a  fool  because  you  are  a 
musician.  Wish?  A  man  like  that  who  has  injured  you 


Out  of  the  Frying  Pan  Into  the  Fire    121 

as  much  as  he  could  and  as  often  as  he  could  will  go  on :  it 
is  the  nature  of  such  a  man  to  injure  others :  his  delight  and 
his  nature:  he  craves  for  mischief  almost  as  he  craves  for 
gambling/ 

'You  are  bitter  against — your  husband,  Jenny.' 

'I  am  very  bitter  against  him.     I  have  reason/ 

'But  about  the  revenge.     Of  what  kind  is  it  ?' 

'You  may  do  this.  His  father,  the  Alderman,  has  with- 
drawn from  any  active  partnership  in  the  business,  which  is 
conducted  entirely  by  Matthew.  He  passes  now  an  idle  life 
beside  Clapham  Common,  with  his  gardens  and  his  green- 
houses. Go  to  this  poor  gentleman :  tell  him  the  truth.  Let 
him  learn  that  his  son  is  a  gambler:  that  he  is  wasting  all 
that  is  left  to  waste:  that  his  losses  have  been  very  heavy 
already:  and  that  the  end  is  certain  bankruptcy.  You  can 
tell  your  uncle  that  you  saw  yourself  with  your  own  eyes 
Matthew  losing  a  hundred  and  fifty-five  guineas  in  the  card- 
room  of  a  Masquerade :  this  will  terrify  him,  though  at  first 
he  will  ndt  believe  it:  then  he  will  cause  the  affairs  of  the 
House  to  be  examined,  and  he  will  find  out,  if  accountants 
are  any  use,  how  much  has  been  already  wasted.  Mind, 
Will,  I  invent  nothing.  All  this  I  know.  The  House  is 
well-nigh  ruined/ 

'How  do  you  know  all  this,  Jenny?' 

'Not  by  visions,  certainly.  I  know  it  from  information. 
It  is,  I  assure  you,  the  bare  truth.  The  House  is  already 
well-nigh  ruined/ 

'I  fear  I  cannot  tell  my  uncle  these  things/ 

'It  would  be  a  kindness  to  him  in  the  end,  Will.  Let  him 
learn  the  truth  before  the  worst  happens/ 

I  shook  my  head.  Revenge  is  not  a  pleasing  task.  To 
go  to  my  uncle  with  such  a  tale  seemed  a  mean  way  of  re- 
turning Matthew's  injuries. 

'I  do  not  counsel  revenge,  then/  she  went  on,  again  divin- 
ing my  thoughts.  'Call  it  your  safety.  When  you  have 
alarmed  your  uncle  into  calling  for  an  explanation,  go  and 
see  the  man  Probus/ 

'See  Probus?    Why?' 

'I  would  separate  Probus  from  his  client.  Go  and  tell  the 
man — go  and  tell  him  without  reference  to  his  past  villainies 
that  his  client  Matthew  is  an  incurable  gambler,  and  that  all 
the  money  Probus  has  lent  to  him  has  been  lost  over  the 
gaming  table/ 


122  The  Orange  Girl 

Tell  Probus?'  The  thought  of  speaking  to  Probus  ex- 
cept as  to  a  viper  was  not  pleasant. 

'I  have  made  inquiries  about  Probus.'  She  knew  every- 
thing, this  woman !  'He  is  of  the  tribe  they  call  blood- 
suckers :  they  fasten  upon  their  victim,  and  they  never  let  go 
till  such  time  as  there  is  no  more  blood  to  suck.  There  is 
some  blood  left.  Probus  will  never  think  of  you  while  he 
is  saving  what  he  can  of  his  own.  Tell  the  money-lender 
this,  I  say,  and  what  with  Probus  on  the  one  hand,  maddened 
by  his  loss,  and  his  own  father  on  the  other,  well-nigh  terri- 
fied to  death,  Matthew  will  have  enough  to  do/ 

'Would  you  like  me  to  do  this,  Jenny?' 

'I  should  like  it  done,'  she  replied,  turning  away  her  face. 

'Would  you  like  to  do  it  yourself,  Jenny  ?' 

'I  am  a  woman.     Women  must  not  do  violent  things.' 

'Jenny,  there  is  more  revenge  than  precaution  in  this.' 

'There  may  be  some  revenge,  but  there  is  also  a  good 
deal  of  prudence/ 

'I  cannot  do  it,  Jenny/ 

'Are  you  afraid,  Will?  To  be  sure,  a  musician  is  not  a 
sold — so — no — Will,  forgive  me.  You  are  not  afraid.  For- 
give me/ 

'I  shall  leave  them  to  work  out  their  destruction  in  their 
own  way,  whatever  way  that  may  be/ 

'But  that  way  may  be  hurtful  to  you,  my  poor  Will — even 
fatal  to  you/ 

'I  shall  leave  them  alone:  their  punishment  will  surely 
fall  upon  them,  they  will  dig  a  trap  to  their  own  un- 
doing/ 

'Will,  I  have  heard  that  kind  of  talk  before.  I  have  used 
those  words  myself  upon  the  stage/  She  threw  herself  into 
an  attitude  and  declaimed  with  fire. 

'Think  not,  Allora,  that  I  dread  their  hate : 
Nor  hate,  nor  vile  conspiracy  shall  turn  me — 
Still  on  their  own  presumptuous  heads  shall  fall 
The  lightning  they  invoke  for  mine ;    for  lower 
Hangs  yon  black  thunder  cloud ;   and  even  louder 
I  hear  the  rumbling  of  the  angry  earth. 
Wait  but  a  moment:   then  the  flash  shall  shoot; 
Then  shall  the  thunder  roar ;   the  earth  shall  gape ; 
And  where  they  stood  there  shall  be  nothingness/ 

'That  is  your  position,  Will.  For  my  own  part,  if  I  were 
you,  I  should  prefer  safety,  and  I  should  not  object  to 
revenge/ 


Out  of  the  Frying  Pan  Into  the  Fire    123 

'It  is  true,  Jenny/ 

'Perhaps.  For  my  own  part,  I  have  known  a  monstrous 
number  of  wicked  people  on  whom  no  lightnings  fell,  and 
for  whom  the  earth  did  never  gape.  Nothing  has  happened 
to  them  so  long  as  they  were  gentlemen.  With  the  baser 
sort,  of  course,  there  is  Tyburn,  and  I  dare  say  that  feels  at 
the  end  like  the  gaping  of  the  earth  and  the  flash  of  lightning 
and  the  roar  of  the  thunder,  all  together.  Even  with  them 
some  escape/ 

I  would  have  quoted  the  Psalmist,  but  refrained,  because 
by  this  time  I  had  made  the  singular  discovery  that  Jenny 
seemed  to  have  no  knowledge  of  religion  at  all.  If  one 
spoke  in  the  common  way  of  man's  dependence  she  looked 
as  if  she  understood  nothing:  or  she  said  she  had  heard 
words  to  that  effect  on  the  stage :  if  one  spoke  indirectly  of 
the  Christian  scheme  she  showed  no  response :  had  I  men- 
tioned the  Psalmist  she  would  have  asked  perhaps  who  the 
Psalmist  was,  or  where  his  pieces  were  played.  She  never 
went  to  church:  she  never  read  any  books  except  her 
own  parts.  She  was  sharp  and  clever  in  the  conduct  of 
affairs:  she  was  not  to  be  taken  in  by  rogues:  how  could 
such  a  woman,  considering  our  mode  of  education  and  the 
general  acknowledgment  of  Christianity,  even  in  an  atheis- 
tical age,  that  prevails  in  our  books,  escape  some  knowledge, 
or  tincture,  of  religion? 

'Do  not  call  it  revenge,'  she  insisted.  'In  your  own  safety 
you  should  strike :  and  'without  delay.  I  repeat  it :  I  can- 
not put  it  too  strongly  before  you.  There  is  a  great  danger 
threatening.  When  Probus  finds  that  the  money  is  really 
gone,  he  will  become  desperate :  he  will  stick  at  nothing.' 

'Since  he  knows,  now,  that  nothing  will  persuade  me  to 
sell  that  chance  of  succession,  he  will  perhaps  desist.' 

'He  will  never  desist.  If  you  were  dead!  The  thought 
lies  in  both  their  minds.  If  you  were  dead!  Then  that 
money  would  be  Matthew's.' 

'Do  you  think  Mr.  Probus  will  murder  me  ?' 

'Not  with  his  own  hands.  Still — do  you  think,  Will, 
that  when  two  villains  are  continually  brooding  over  the 
same  thought,  villainy  will  not  follow?  If  I  were  you  I 
would  take  this  tale  to  the  Alderman  first,  and  to  Probus 
next,  and  I  should  then  keep  out  of  the  way  for  six  months 
at  least/ 

'No/  I  said.     'They  shall  be  left  to  themselves/ 


124  The  Orange  Girl 

Perhaps  I  was  wrong.  Had  I  told  my  uncle  all,  the 
bankruptcy  would  have  been  precipitated  and  Probus's  claim 
would  have  been  treated  with  all  the  others,  and  even  if  that 
large  sum  had  fallen  it  would  have  been  added  to  the  general 
estate  and  divided  accordingly. 

It  was  in  the  afternoon :  the  sun  was  sinking  westward :  it 
shone  through  the  window  upon  Jenny  as  she  restlessly 
moved  about  the  room — disquieted  by  all  she  had  to  tell  me. 
I  remember  how  she  was  dressed:  in  a  frock  of  light  blue 
silk,  with  a  petticoat  to  match :  her  hair  hung  in  its  natural 
curls,  covered  with  a  kerchief — the  soft  evening  sunlight 
wrapped  her  in  a  blaze  of  light  and  colour.  And  oh!  the 
pity  of  it!  To  think  that  this  divine  creature  was  thrown 
away  upon  my  wretched  cousin !  The  pity  of  it ! 

'Tell  me,  Jenny/  I  said,  'how  you  became  his  wife?' 

'Yes,  Will,  I  will  tell  you/  she  replied  humbly.  'Don't 
think  that  I  ever  loved  him — nor  could  I  endure  his  caresses 
— but  he  never  offered  any — the  only  man  who  never  wanted 
to  caress  me  was  my  husband — to  be  sure  he  did  not  love 
me — or  anyone  else — he  is  incapable  of  love.  He  is  a 
worm.  His  hand  is  slimy  and  cold:  his  face  is  slimy:  his 
voice  is  slimy.  But  I  thought  I  could  live  with  him,  per- 
haps. If  not,  I  could  always  leave  him.' 

She  paused  a  little  as  if  to  collect  herself. 

'Every  actress/  she  went  on,  'has  troops  of  lovers.  There 
are  the  gentlemen  first  who  would  fain  make  her  their  mis- 
tress for  a  month :  those  who  would  make  her  their  mistress 
for  a  year :  and  those  who  desire  only  the  honour  and  glory 
of  pretending  that  she  is  their  mistress :  and  then  there  are 
the  men  'who  would  like  nothing  better  than  to  marry  the 
actress  and  to  live  upon  her  salary — believe  me,  of  all  these 
there  are  plenty.  Lastly,  there  is  the  gentleman  Who  would 
really  marry  the  actress,  all  for  love  of  her,  and  for  no  other 
consideration.  I  thought,  at  first,  that  your  cousin  Matthew- 
was  one  of  these/ 

'How  did  you  know  him?' 

'He  was  brought  into  the  Green  Room  one  night  'by  some 
gambling  acquaintance.  I  remarked  his  long  serious  face,  I 
thought  he  was  a  man  who  might  be  trusted.  He  asked  per- 
mission to  wait  upon  me ' 

'Well  ?'     For  she  stopped. 

'I  thought,  I  say,  that  he  was  a  man  to  be  trusted.  He 
did  not  look  like  one  who  drank:  he  did  not  follow  other 


Out  of  the  Frying  Pan  Into  the  Fire    125 

actresses  about  with  his  eyes:  I  say,  Will,  that  I  thought 
I  could  trust  him.  He  came  to  my  lodging.  He  told  me 
that  he  was  a  rich  City  merchant :  he  asked  me  what  I  should 
like  if  I  would  marry  him  and  he  promised  to  give  it  to  me — 
that — and  anything  else ' 

'If  you  did  not  love  him — Jenny ' 

'I  did  not  love  him.  I  will  tell  you.  I  wanted  to  get 
away  from  the  man  I  did  love;  and  so  I  wanted,  above  all, 
to  be  taken  away  from  London  and  the  Theatre  into  the 
country,  never  to  hear  anything  more  about  the  stage.  Had 
he  done  what  he  promised,  Will,  I  would  have  made  a  good 
wife  to  him,  although  he  is  a  slimy  worm.  But  he  did  not. 
He  broke  his  word  on  the  very  morning  when  we  came  out 
of  church ' 

'How?' 

'He  began  by  saying  that  he  had  a  little  explanation  to 
offer.  He  said  that  When  he  told  me  he  was  a  rich  mer- 
chant— that,  indeed,  was  his  reputation :  but  his  position  was 
embarrassed:  he  wanted  money:  he  wished  not  to  borrow 
any:  he  therefore  thought  that  if  he  married  an  actress — 
that  class  of  persons  being  notorious  for  having  no  honour — > 
his  very  words  to  me,  actually,  his  very  words  an  hour  after 
leaving  the  church — he  intended  to  open  a  gaming-house  at 
which  I  was  to  be  the  decoy.  Now  you  understand  why  I 
call  him  a  villain,  and  a  wretch,  and  a  slimy  worm.' 

'Jenny!' 

'I  left  him  on  the  spot  after  telling  him  what  he  was — 
I  left  'him — I  left  the  Theatre  as  well.  I  had  a  friend  who 
found  me  the  money  to  take  this  place  under  another  name. 
I  have  seen  the  man  many  times  here — last  night — and  once 
I  called  upon  him  and  I  made  him  give  me  the  money  to  get 
you  out  of  the  Prison,  Will.' 

'Matthew  found  that  money?' 

'Of  course,  he  did.  I  had  none — I  went  to  him  and  re- 
minded him  that  he  had  contributed  nothing  to  the  mainten- 
ance of  his  wife,  and  that  he  must  give  me  whatever  the  sum 
was.  He  was  obliged  to  give  it,  otherwise  I  should  have 
informed  the  clerks  of  the  Counting-house  who  I  was.' 

I  laughed.     'Well,  but  Jenny,  there  was  another  man ' 

'You  are  persistent,  Sir.  Why  should  I  tell  you?  Well, 
I  will  confess.  This  man  protested  a  great  deal  less  than 
the  others.  He  was  a  noble  Lord,  if  that  matters.  He  was 
quite  different  from  all  the  rest :  he  never  came  to  the  Green 


1 26  The  Orange  Girl 

Room  drunk:  he  never  cursed  and  swore:  he  never  shook 
his  cane  in  the  face  of  footman  or  chairman :  he  was  a  gentle 
creature — and  he  loved  me  and  would  have  married  me :  well 
—I  told  him  who  and  what  I  was — I  will  tell  you  presently 
— that  mattered  nothing.  He  would  carry  me  away  from 
them  all.  I  would  have  married  him,  Will :  and  we  should 
have  been  happy :  but  his  sister  came  to  see  me  and  she  went 
on  her  knees  crying  and  imploring  me  to  refuse  him  because 
in  the  history  of  their  family  there  'had  never  been  any  such 
alliance  as  that  with  an  actress  of  no  family.  Would  I  bring 
disgrace  into  a  noble  family  ?  If  I  refused,  he  would  forget 
me,  and  she  would  do  all  in  her  power  for  me,  if  ever  I 
wanted  a  friend.  It  was  for  his  sake — if  I  loved  him  I 
would  not  injure  him.  And  so  she  went  on:  and  she  per- 
suaded me,  Will — because,  you  see,  when  people  pride  them- 
selves about  their  families  it  is  a  pity  to  bring  the  gutter  into 
it — with  Newgate  and  Tyburn,  isn't  it  ?' 

'Jenny,  what  has  Newgate  got  to  do  with  it?' 

'Wait  and  I  will  tell  you.  I  gave  way.  It  cost  me  a 
great  deal,  Will — more  than  you  would  believe — because 
I  had  never  loved  anyone  before — and  when  a  woman  does 

love  a  man '  The  tears  rose  in  her  eyes, — 'and  then  it 

was  that  your  cousin  came  to  the  Theatre/ 

Poor  Jenny!  And  she  always  seemed  so  cheerful,  so 
lively,  so  happy !  Her  face  might  have  been  drawn  to  illus- 
trate Milton's  'L'Allegra/  How  could  she  look  so  happy 
when  she  had  this  unhappy  love  story  and  this  unhappy  mar- 
riage to  think  upon  ?' 

'Will/  she  cried  passionately,  'I  am  the  most  unhappy  wo- 
man in  the  world/ 

I  made  no  reply.  Indeed  I  knew  not  what  there  was  to 
say.  Matthew  was  a  villain:  there  can  be  few  worse  vil- 
lains :  Jenny  was  in  truth  a  most  injured  and  a  most  un- 
happy woman. 

It  was  growing  twilight.  What  followed  was  told,  or 
most  of  it,  because  I  have  set  down  the  result  of  two  or 
three  conversations  in  one,  by  the  light  of  the  fire,  in  a  low 
voice,  a  low  musical  voice — that  seemed  to  rob  the  naked 
truth  of  much  of  its  horrors. 

'I  told  my  Lord,  Will/  she  said,  'what  I  am  going  to  tell 
you  because  I  would  not  have  him  ignorant  of  anything,  or 
find  out  anything — afterwards — but  there  was  no  aftenvards 
— 'which  he  might  think  I  should  have  told  him  before.  He 


Out  of  the  Frying  Pan  Into  the  Fire    1 27 

has  a  pretty  gift  of  drawing:  he  makes  pictures  of  things 
and  people  'with  a  pencil  and  a  box  of  water-colours.  I 
made  him  take  certain  sketches  for  me.  He  did  so,  wonder- 
ing what  they  might  mean.'  Here  she  rose,  opened  a  drawer 
in  a  cabinet  and  took  out  a  little  packet  tied  up  with  a  ribbon. 
'First  I  begged  him  to  sketch  me  one  of  the  little  girls  who 
run  about  the  streets  in  Soho.  There  are  hundreds  of  them : 
they  are  bare-footed:  bare-headed:  dressed  in  a  sack,  in  a 
flannel  petticoat :  in  anything :  they  have  no  schooling :  they 
are  not  taught  anything  at  all:  their  parents  and  their 
brothers  and  sisters  and  their  cousins  and  their  grandparents 
are  all  thieves  and  rogues  together :  what  can  they  become  ? 
What  hope  is  there  for  them?  See/  she  took  one  of  the 
pictures  out  and  gave  it  to  me.  By  the  firelight  I  made  out 
a  little  girl  standing  in  the  street.  In  her  carriage  there  was 
something  of  the  freedom  of  a  gipsy  in  the  woods :  her  hair 
blew  loose  in  the  wind,  her  scanty  petticoat  clung  to  her 
little  figure :  she  was  bare-legged,  bare-footed,  bare-headed. 
'Can  you  see  it,  Will?  Well —  when  I  had  got  all  the  pic- 
tures together,  I  asked  the  artist  to  sit  down,  as  I  have  asked 
you  to-day.  And  when  'he  was  sat  down,  I  had  the  bundle 
of  pictures  in  my  hand,  and  I  said  to  him,  "My  Lord,  this  is 
a  very  pretty  sketch — I  like  it  all  the  better  because  it  shows 
what  I  was  like  at  that  age."  "You,  Jenny?"  "Yes,  my 
Lord,  I  myself.  That  little  girl  is  myself."  "Well!"  he 
cried  out  on  the  impossibility  of  the  thing.  But  I  assured 
him  of  the  truth  of  what  I  said.  Then  I  took  up  the  next 
picture.  It  represented  the  entrance  of  a  court  in  Soho. 
Round  this  entrance  were  gathered  a  collection  of  men  and 
women  with  the  most  evil  faces  possible.  "These,  my 
Lord,"  I  said,  "are  the  people  who  were  once  my  companions 
when  they  and  I  were  young  together."  "But  not  now  ?"  he 
asked.  "Not  now,"  I  told  him,  "save  that  they  all  remem- 
ber (me  and  consider  me  as  one  of  themselves  and  come  to 
the  Theatre  in  order  to  applaud  me :  the  highwaymen  going 
to  the  pit;  the  petty  thieves  and  pickpockets  and  footpads  to 
the  gallery."  Well,  at  first  he  looked  serious.  Then  he 
cleared  up  and  kissed  my  hand :  he  loved  me  for  myself,  he 
said,  and  as  regards  the  highwaymen  and  such  fellows,  he 
would  very  soon  take  me  out  of  their  way/ 

'But,  Jenny ' 

'Will,  I  am  telling  you  what  I  told  his  Lordship.  Believe 
trie,  it  'does  not  cost  me  to  tell  you  half  as  much  as  it  did  to 


128  The  Orange  Girl 

tell  that  noble  heart.     For  he  loved  me,  Will,  and  I  loved 
him/     Again  her  eyes  glistened  by  the  red  light  of  the  fire. 

She  took  up  a  third  picture.  It  represented  a  public- 
house.  Over  the  door  swung  the  sign  of  a  Black  Jack :  the 
first  story  projected  over  the  ground-floor,  and  the  second 
story  over  the  first:  beside  the  public-house  stood  a  tall 
church. 

This/  I  told  my  Lord,  'is  the  Black  Jack  tavern.  It  is 
the  House  of  Call  for  most  of  the  rogues  and  thieves  of 
Soho.  The  church  is  St.  Giles's  Church.  As  for  my  own 
interest  in  the  house,  I  was  born  there :  my  mother  and 
sister  still  keep  the  place  between  them :  it  is  in  good  repute 
among  the  gentry  who  frequent  it  for  its  kitchen,  where 
there  is  always  a  fire  for  those  who  cook  their  own  suppers, 
and  for  the  drinks,  which  are  excellent,  if  not  dieap.  What 
is  the  use  of  keeping  cheap  things  for  thieves  ?  Lightly  got, 
lightly  spent.  There  is  nothing  cheap  at  that  House.  My 
mother  enjoys  a  reputation  for  being  a  Receiver  of  Stolen 
Goods — a  reputation  well  deserved,  as  I  have  reason  to  be- 
lieve. The  Goods  are  all  stowed  away  in  a  stone  vault  or 
cellar  once  belonging  to  some  kind  of  house — I  know  not 
what/ 
.  I  groaned. 

"That  is  how  my  Lord  behaved.  Then  he  kissed  my  hand 
again.  "Jenny,"  he  said,  "it  is  not  the  landlady  of  the  Black 
Jack  that  I  am  marrying,  but  Jenny  Wilmot."  He  asked  me 
to  tell  him  more.  Will  you  hear  more  ?' 

'T  will  hear  all  you  desire  to  tell  me,  Jenny/ 

'Once  I  had  a  father.  He  was  a  gipsy,  but  since  he  had 
fair  hair  and  blue  eyes,  he  was  not  a  proper  gipsy.  I  do 
not  know  how  he  got  into  the  caravan  with  the  gipsies. 
Perhaps  he  was  stolen  in  infancy:  or  picked  up  on  a  door- 
step. However,  I  do  not  remember  him.  My  mother 
speaks  of  him  with  pride,  but  I  do  not  know  why.  By  pro- 
fession he  was  a  footpad  and — and' — she  faltered  for  a  mo- 
ment— fhe  met  the  fate  that  belongs  to  that  calling.  See!' 
She  showed  me  a  drawing  representing  the  Triumphal 
March  to  Tyburn.  'My  mother  speaks  of  it  as  if  it  was  the 
fitting  end  of  a  noble  career.  I  have  never  been  quite  able 
to  think  so  too,  and  Will,  if  I  must  confess,  I  would  rather 
that  my  father  had  not  been ' 

'Not  formed  the  leading  figure  in  that  procession/  I  inter- 
posed. 'But  go  on,  Jenny/ 


Out  of  the  Frying  Pan  Into  the  Fire    129 

She  took  up  another  picture  and  handed  it  to  me.  It  was 
a  spirited  sketch  representing  a  small  crowd ;  a  pump ;  and  a 
boy  held  under  the  pump. 

'I  had  two  brothers.  This  was  one.  He  was  a  pick- 
pocket. What  could  be  expected?  He  was  caught  in  the 
act  and  held  under  a  pump.  But  they  kept  him  so  long  that 
it  brought  on  a  chill  and  he  died.  The  other  brother  is  now 
in  the  Plantations  of  Jamaica/ 

She  produced  another  picture.  It  represented  an  Orange 
Girl  at  Drury  Lane.  She  carried  her  basket  of  oranges  on 
her  arm :  she  had  a  white  kerchief  over  her  neck  and  shoul- 
ders and  another  over  her  head :  her  face  was  full  of  im- 
pudence, cleverness  and  wit. 

'That,  Will,  is  the  first  step  upwards  of  your  cousin's  wife. 
From  the  gutter  to  the  pit  of  Drury  Lane  as  an  Orange  girl. 
There  was  a  step  for  me !  Yes.  I  looked  like  that :  I  be- 
haved like  that :  I  was  as  shameless  as  that :  I  used  to  talk  to 
the  men  in  the  Pit  as  they  talk — you  know  the  kind  of  talk. 
And  now,  Will,  confess :  you  are  heartily  ashamed  of  me/ 

'Jenny !'  Like  the  noble  Lord,  I  kissed  her  fingers.  'Be- 
lieve me,  I  am  not  in  the  least  ashamed  of  you/ 

'The  next  step  was  to  the  stage.  That,  Will,  was  pure 
luck.  The  Manager  heard  me  imitating  the  actors  and 
actresses — and  himself.  He  saw  me  dancing  to  please  the 
other  girls — I  used  to  dance  to  please  the  people  in  the 
Black  Jack.  He  took  a  fancy  in  his  head  that  I  was  clever. 
He  took  me  from  among  the  other  girls :  he  gave  me  instruc- 
tion :  and  presently  a  speaking  part.  That  is  the  whole  his- 
tory. I  have  told  you  all — I  never  told  these  things  to  Mat- 
thew— why  should  I  ?  But  to  my  Lord,  I  told  all ' 

'Yes — and  he  was  not  ashamed/ 

'No — but  he  did  not  like  the  applause  of  the  rogues,  and 
the  orange  girls.  While  the  highwaymen  applauded  in  the 
pit  and  the  pickpockets  in  the  Gallery,  the  Orange  Girls  were 
telling  all  the  people  that  once  I  was  one  of  them  with  my 
basket  of  oranges  like  the  rest — and  so  it  was  agreed  that 
I  was  to  leave  the  stage  and  go  away  into  the  country  out  of 
the  way  of  all  the  old  set/ 

'And  then/ 

'Then  I  could  no  longer  oblige  my  Lord.  I  left  it  to 
oblige  myself  and  to  marry  Matthew/ 

'She  sat  down  and  buried  her  face  in  her  hands.  'But  I 
loved  mv  Lord/  she  said.  'I  loved  my  Lord/ 


130  The  Orange  Girl 


CHAPTER  V 

THE  BLACK  JACK 

JENNY  finished  her  story,  much  as  you  have  heard  it, 
though  some  has  been  forgotten. 

'And  now,'  sfae  said,  'I  will  take  you  to  the  very  place 
where  I  was  born.  You  shall  see  for  yourself  the  house, 
and  my  mother  and  my  sister  and  the  company  among  whom 
I  was  brought  up.  Wait  for  a  moment  while  I  change  my 
dress.  I  cannot  go  like  this.  And  I  do  not  want  all  of  them 
to  learn  where  I  now  live/ 

She  returned  in  a  few  minutes  dressed  in  the  garb  of  an 
orange  girl  of  Drury.  Everybody  knows  how  these  girls 
are  attired;  a  frock  of  the  commonest  linsey-woolsey;  a 
kerchief  over  her  head  tied  under  her  chin :  another  kerchief 
round  her  neck  and  bosom ;  her  sleeves  coming  down  to  her 
elbows ;  on  her  arm  a  round  deep  basket  filled  with  oranges. 
But  no  orange  girl  ever  had  so  sweet  a  face ;  so  fine  a  car- 
riage; hands  and  arms  so  -white.  Nor  could  any  disguise 
deprive  this  lovely  creature  of  her  beauty  or  rob  her  face  of 
its  pure  and  virginal  expression.  That  such  a  being  should 
come  out  of  the  Black  Jack!  But  then  we  find  the  white 
lily  growing  beside  a  haystack  or  a  pigsty  and  none  the  less 
white  and  delicate  and  fragrant. 

The  tavern  called  the  Black  Jack  stands  over  against  the 
west  front  of  St.  Giles's  Church,  at  the  corner  of  Denmark 
Street,  with  a  double  entrance  which  has  proved  useful,  I 
believe,  on  the  appearance  of  constables  or  Bow  Street  run- 
ners. The  Church  which  is  large  and  handsome,  worthy  of 
better  parishioners,  stands  in  the  midst  of  a  quarter  famous 
for  harbouring,  producing  and  encouraging  the  most  auda- 
cious rogues  and  the  most  impudent  drabs  that  can  be  found 
in  the  whole  of  London.  As  for  the  Church,  of  course  they 
never  enter  it :  as  for  religion,  they  have  never  learned  any : 
as  for  morals,  they  know  of  none ;  as  for  the  laws,  they  defy 
them;  as  for  hanging,  whipping  and  imprisonment,  they 
heed  them  no  more  than  other  folk  heed  the  necessity  of 


Out  of  the  Frying  Pan  Into  the  Fire    131 

death  or  the  chances  of  pain  and  suffering,  before  death  re- 
leases them. 

Every  man  must  die,  they  say.  Few  people  among  them 
live  naturally  more  than  forty  years  or  so.  Fever,  small- 
pox, ague,  carry  off  most  of  their  class  before  forty.  If, 
therefore,  one  takes  part  in  the  march  to  Tyburn  at  five-and- 
thirty  one  does  but  lose  two  or  three  years  of  life.  Then, 
again,  there  is  the  punishment  of  the  lash — that  seems  very! 
terrible.  But  every  man,  rich  or  poor,  has  to  endure  pain; 
very  often  pain  worse  than  that  of  the  lash.  Certainly,  the 
agony  of  the  whip  is  not  worse  than  that  of  rheumatism  or 
gout:  it  is  sooner  over:  it  makes  no  man  any  the  older:  it 
does  not  unfit  him  for  his  work:  after  a  day  or  two,  he  is 
none  the  worse  for  it.  As  for  imprisonment;  a  prison,  if 
your  friends  look  after  you,  may  be  made,  with  the  help  of 
a  few  companions,  as  cheerful  a  place  as  the  kitchen  of  the 
Black  Jack  with  drinking  and  singing  and  tobacco.  This 
kind  of  talk  is  the  religion  of  Roguedom,  and  since  it  is  so, 
we  may  cease  to  wonder  why  these  people  are  not  deterred 
by  the  severity  of  their  punishments.  For  no  punishment 
can  deter  when  it  is  not  feared :  that  is  beyond  question :  and 
since  after  punishment,  the  rogue  is  still  regarded  as  a  rogue, 
whom  no  one  will  employ,  punishment  does  not  convert. 
Nor  does  the  prison  chaplain  effect  any  miracles  in  conver- 
sion, because  no  one  listen's  to  his  exhortations. 

Over  against  the  church  of  St.  Giles,  the  tavern  of  the 
Black  Jack  lifts  its  shameless  head:  the  projecting  upper 
windows  bend  threatening  brows  against  the  west  end  of  the 
Church  with  its  pillars  of  white  stone :  the  house  has  villainy 
written  large  over  all  the  front:  it  is  covered  with  yellow 
places  breaking  away  in  lumps  and  showing  the  black  tim- 
bers behind :  the  roof,  of  red  tiles,  is  sunken  in  parts :  many 
of  the  windows  are  broken  and  stuffed  with  rags. 

The  ground  floor  consists  of  a  long  low  room :  at  one  end 
is  a  bar  with  a  counter,  behind  it  casks  of  beer  and  rum  and 
shelves  with  bottles  containing  cordials :  there  is  a  door  be- 
hind the  bar  opening  to  a  cellar  staircase:  and  is  said  to 
communicate  with  a  subterranean  passage  leading  one  knows 
not  whither.  It  is  also  rumoured  that  the  cellar,  into  which 
no  one  but  the  landlady  of  the  Black  Jack  and  her  daughter 
has  ever  penetrated,  is  a  large  stone  vault  with  pillars  and 
arches,  the  remains  of  some  Roman  Catholic  building.  The 
kitchen,  or  public  room,  is  on  the  ground  floor  about  twelve 


132  The  Orange  Girl 

inches  below  the  level  of  the  street :  it  is  entered  by  two  steps: 
the  window  is  garnished  with  red  curtains,  which  on  wintry 
evenings  give  the  place  a  warm  and  cheerful  look :  the  bright 
colour  promises  a  roaring  fire  and  lights  and  drink.  Both 
in  the  summer  and  winter  the  place  is  always  cheerful  be- 
cause it  rs  always  filled  with  company. 

Three  or  four  candles  in  sconces  light  up  the  room,  and, 
in  addition,  a  generous  fire  always  burning  every  night,  adds 
to  the  light  of  the  place.  The  fire  is  kept  up  partly  for 
warmth :  partly  for  the  convenience  of  those  who  bring 
their  suppers  with  them  and  cook  them  on  the  fire.  Also, 
for  their  convenience,  frying-pans  and  gridirons  are  lying 
ready  beside  the  fireplace:  and  for  the  convenience  of  the 
punch-drinkers  a  huge  kettle  bubbles  on  the  hob.  Two  tables 
stand  for  those  who  take  their  supper  here.  As  the  food 
principally  in  favour  consists  of  bloaters,  red  herrings, 
sprats,  mackerel,  pig's  fry,  pork,  fat  bacon,  beefsteak  and 
onions,  liver  and  lights  and  other  coarse  but  savoury  dishes, 
the  mingled  fragrance  makes  the  air  delightful  and  refresh- 
ing. As  the  windows  are  never  open  the  air  is  never  free 
from  this  fragrance,  added  to  which  is  the  reek,  or  stench 
of  old  beer,  rum,  gin,  and  rank  tobacco  taken  in  the  horrid 
manner  of  the  lower  classes,  by  means  of  a  clay  pipe,  not  in 
the  more  courtly  fashion  of  snuff.  Nor  must  one  forget 
the — pah! — the  company — the  people  themselves,  the  men 
and  women,  the  boys  and  girls  who  frequent  this  tavern 
nightly.  Taking  all  into  account,  I  think  it  would  be  diffi- 
cult, outside  Newgate,  to  find  a  more  noisome  den  than  the 
kitchen  or  bar-room  of  the  Black  Jack. 

All  round  the  room  ran  a  bench :  the  company  sat  on  the 
bench,  every  man  with  a  pipe  of  tobacco  and  a  mug  of  drink : 
the  walls  were  streaming :  one  felt  inclined  to  run  away — out 
into  the  fresh  air  for  breath.  The  space  in  the  middle  was 
mostly  kept  open  for  a  fight,  perhaps :  for  a  dance,  perhaps, 
if  a  fiddler  could  be  found.  Every  evening,  I  believe,  there 
was  a  fight  either  between  two  men,  or  between  two  women : 
or  between  two  boys.  What  would  an  Englishman  of  the 
baser  sort  become  if  he  were  forbidden  to  fight? 

I  describe  What  I  saw  after  we  entered.  When  Jenny 
pushed  open  the  door  and  the  breath  of  that  tavern  ascended 
to  my  nostrils  I  trembled  and  hesitated. 

'Strong,  at  first,  isn't  it?'  said  Jenny.  'Cousin  Will,  to 
stand  here  and  breathe  the  air  that  comes  up  carries  me  back 


Out  of  the  Frying  Pan  Into  the  Fire    133 

to  my  childhood.  You  are  ready  to  face  it?  After  a  little 
one  grows  accustomed.  They  like  it,  the  people  inside."' 
She  stood  with  the  handle  of  the  half  opened  door  in  her 
hand.  'Now/  she  said.  'You  shall  visit  the  Rogues'  De- 
light: the  Thieves'  Kitchen:  the  Black  Jack:  the  favourite 
House  of  Call  for  the  gallows  bird.  You  shall  see  what 
manner  of  woman  is  the  old  lady  my  mother :  and  what  sort 
of  woman  is  the  young  lady  my  sister/ 

'I  am  ready,  Jenny/  I  replied,  with  an  effort.  One  would 
join  a  forlorn  hope  almost  as  readily. 

'Don't  mind  me.  Take  no  notice  whatever  I  say  or  do/ 
she  whispered.  'I  must  -humour  the  wretches.  It  is  more 
than  twelve  months  since  I  have  been  among  them.  They 
may  resent  my  absence.  However,  you  keep  quiet,  and  say 
nothing.  Call  for  drink  if  you  like,  and  pretend  to  be  an  old 
hand  in  the  place.' 

Jenny  threw  up  her  head :  opened  her  lips :  laughed  loudly 
and  impuclently :  looked  round  her  with  an  impudent  stare : 
became,  in  a  word,  once  more,  one  of  the  brazen  young 
queans  who  sell  oranges  and  exchange  rude  jokes  with  the 
gentlemen  in  the  Pit  of  Drury  Lane  Theatre.  It  was  a 
wonderful  change.  I  saw  a  girl  who  would  perhaps  be 
beautiful  if  she  had  preserved  any  rags  or  the  least  appear- 
ance of  feminine  modesty :  as  for  Jenny's  sweet  and  attrac- 
tive look  of  innocence,  that  had  vanished.  She  had,  in  fact, 
resumed  her  former  self,  and  more  than  her  former  self.  I 
saw  her  as  she  had  been.  Was  there  ever  before  known 
such  a  thing  that  a  girl  who  had  never  been  taught  what  was 
meant  by  feminine  modesty  should  be  able  to  assume,  at  will, 
the  look  of  one  brought  up  in  a  convent — all  innocence  and 
ignorance — and,  at  will,  be  able  to  put  it  off  and  go  back  to 
her  former  self?  No — it  is  impossible:  the  innocence  of 
Jenny's  face  proclaimed  the  innocence  of  Jenny's  soul. 

'Follow  me/  she  said.  'Keep  close,  or  expect  a  pewter 
plate  or  a  pot  hurled  at  your  head.  They  love  not  strangers.' 

She  pushed  open  the  door:  she  descended  the  steps:  I 
followed.  The  room  was  quite  full,  and  the  reek  of  it 
made  me  sick  and  faint  for  a  moment.  But  to  the  worst  of 
stinks  one  quickly  grows  hardened. 

'By !'  cried  a  voice  from  out  of  the  smoke.     'It's 

Madame/ 

,  Mother'— this  was  a  girl's  voice— "tis  Jenny. 


1 34  The  Orange  Girl 

Why,  Jenny,  we  all  thought  you  was  grown  too  proud  for 
the  Black  Jack.' 

'Good-evening  all,'  she  cried  with  a  loud  coarse  laugh ;  she 
added,  as  a  finishing  stroke  of  art,  a  certain  click  or  choking 
in  the  middle  at  the  laugh  such  as  one  may  hear  among  the 
lowest  sort  of  women  as  they  walk  along  the  street.  'How 
are  you,  mother?  You  did  not  expect  me  to  come  in  to- 
night, did  you?  How's  business?  How  are  you,  Doll? 
Adding  up  the  figures  on  the  slate  as  usual  ?  How  are  you, 
boys  ?  I  'haven't  seen  any  of  you  at  the  Theatre  for  a  spell. 
That's  because  I've  been  resting.  Actresses  must  rest  some- 
times. Where  have  I  been?  That's  my  business.  Who 
with  ?  That's  my  business,  too.  Now' — she  brandished  her 
basket,  and  walked  about  among  them  shaking  her  petticoats 
in  the  way  of  the  impudent  orange  girls — 'choose  a  fine 
Chaney  orange!  Choose  a  fine  Chancy  orange!  One  for 
your  sweetheart,  my  curly  boy  ?  Here  is  a  fine  one :  pay  me 
w'hen  I  come  again.  Doll,  chalk  up  to  the  gentleman  an 
orange  for  his  girl.  One  for  this  pretty  country  girl? 
Take  it,  my  beauty.  I  will  tell  your  fortune  presently — a 
lover  and  a  pile  of  gold  and  babies  as  sweet  as  this  orange.' 
So  she  got  rid  of  her  oranges,  offering  and  presenting  them 
here  and  there  with  the  impudence  of  the  craft  she  assumed, 
yet  with  something  of  her  own  inimitable  grace  which  she 
could  not  quite  put  off.  Then  she  turned  to  me.  'Sit  down 
here,'  she  ordered.  'Lads,'  she  said,  'I've  brought  you  a 
friend  of  mine.  He's  a  fiddler  by  trade.  If  you  like  he  will 
fiddle  for  you  till  he  puts  fire  into  your  toes  and  springs  into 
your  heels/ 

'Who  is  he?'  cried  a  voice.  Through  the  smoke  I  now 
recognised  the  Bishop,  formerly  of  the  King's  Bench  Prison. 
The  revererid  gentleman's  face  was  redder  and  his  cheek 
fuller  than  when  last  I  saw  him.  He  seemed,  however,  in 
better  case :  he  had  gotten  a  new  cassock :  his  bands  and  his 
cuffs  were  of  whiter  'hue:  his  wig  was  better  shaped  and 
better  dressed:  it  came,  I  make  no  doubt,  from  some  place 
where  are  deposited  the  wigs  snatched  from  the  passengers 
in  hackney  coaches  or  even  in  the  streets.  His  looks,  how- 
ever, were  certainly  more  prosperous  than  when  I  had  seen 
him  last.  He  did  not  recognise  me,  which  was  as  well.  Be- 
side him  sat  the  Captain,  also  more  prosperous  to  all  appear- 
ance. He  wore  a  purple  coat  and  a  fawn-coloured  waistcoat : 
he  had  rings  on  his  fingers,  and  his  hat  was  laced  with  gold : 


Out  of  the  Frying  Pan  Into  the  Fire    135 

he  wore  gold  buckles:  buttons  silver  gilt  and  white  silk 
stockings.  He  looked  what  he  was — a  ruffian,  a  robber,  and 
a  swashbuckler.  He  had  a  girl  on  his  knee,  and  one  arm 
round  her  waist:  she  was  a  handsome,  red- faced  wenc'h 
dressed  up  in  all  kinds  of  finery,  somewhat  decayed  and 
second  hand.  A  pipe  was  between  the  gallant  Captain's  lips 
and  a  glass  of  punch  was  in  his  right  hand.  'Twas  a  picture 
of  Rogues'  Paradise:  warmth,  light,  fire,  clothes,  drink, 
tobacco,  good  company,  and  a  fine  girt.  What  more  can  a 
man  want  ? 

'Who's  your  man?'  repeated  the  Bishop.  'We  are  not 
going  to  have  strangers  here  spying  on  us  for  what  we  do. 
Who  is  he?' 

'Who  is  'he  ?  What's  that  to  you  ?  I  shall  bring  anybody 
I  like  to  the  Black  Jack.  If  you  don't  like  your  Company, 
Bishop,  get  up  and  go.'  He  growled,  but  made  no  attempt 
to  rise.  'If — she  appealed  to  the  Company  generally — 'I 
choose  to  bring  my  fancy  man  here,  am  I  to  ask  the  Bishop's 
leave?'  Then  before  there  was  time  for  a  reply:  'Mother, 
bustle  about.  Let  every  man  call  for  what  he  wants.  Score 
'it  to  me.  This  evening  I  pay  for  all.' 

Her  mother,  a  fat  old  woman  of  fifty,  red  faced,  with  the 
look  of  callous  indifference  that  belongs  to  such  a  woman, 
sat  behind  the  Bar,  a  piece  of  knitting  in  her  hand.  She  got 
up  grumbling. 

'Oh !  ay,'  she  said.  'When  Jenny  comes  you  must  all  get 
drunk  at  her  expense.  She'd  better  give  me  the  money  to 
keep  for  her.  Well — 'what  shall  it  be?  Doll,  stir  about: 
stir  about — you  leave  it  all  to  me.  Ask  the  gentlemen  what 
they  will  take.  And  the  ladies  too.  Whatever  they  like. 
Jenny  pays  to-night.  Whatever  they  like — that's  Jenny's 
way — whatever  they  like  so  that  it  ruins  my  poor  girl.' 

Doll,  the  other  daughter,  made  no  response.  She  was 
continually  occupied  with  the  slate,  and  I  suppose  she  was 
slow  at  calculation  for  she  kept  adding  up  over  and  over 
again,  wiping  out  with  her  wet  finger  and  adding  up  again. 
The  Black  Jack  refused  credit  as  a  rule:  most  of  the  com- 
pany had  to  pay  for  what  they  called  for  on  the  spot;  but 
there  were  a  few  to  whom  limited  credit  was  granted,  as  a 
privilege. 

The  girl  called  Doll,  I  remarked,  was  n'dt  in  the  least  like 
her  sister.  She  had  black  'hair  and  a  somewhat  swarthy 
complexion  and  appeared  to  belong,  as  indeed  she  did,  to  the 


136  The  Orange  Girl 

people  called  gipsies.  The  mother  had  also  the  same  black 
hair  and  dark  skin.  Strange,  that  a  girl  of  Jenny's  com- 
plexion with  her  fair  hair,  blue  eyes,  and  peach-like  skin, 
should  come  of  the  same  stock.  I  sought  in  vain  for  any 
likeness  between  Jenny  and  this  girl.  I  thought  that  she 
might  present  the  same  features  with  a  difference :  debased : 
but  I  could  find  none.  She  wore  a  red  kerchief  tied  round 
her  head,  a  red  ribbon  tied  round  her  neck :  a  red  scarf  tied 
round  her  waist.  In  her  way  she  was  a  handsome  girl:  in 
her  maners  she  showed  no  inclination  to  oblige  the  company 
or  to  be  civil  to  them.  She  paid  no  heed  when  her  mother 
bade  her  stir  about.  On  the  contrary,  she  went  on  with  her 
sums  on  the  slate. 

It  was  Jenny  who  ran  round  laughing  and  joking  with 
the  men,  ordering  punch  for  one  and  gin  for  another.  Most 
of  the  company  regarded  her  with  bewilderment.  It  was 
long  since  she  had  been  among  them :  they  knew  something 
about  her :  she  was  the  daughter  of  the  house :  she  had  been 
an  orange  girl  at  Drury:  she  had  been  an  actress  at  the 
same  theatre:  some  of  them  had  seen  her  there:  then  she 
disappeared,  and  no  one  knew  where  she  was. 

One  young  fellow  there  was  who  sat  on  the  bench  with 
hanging  head.  .He  had  apparently  no  friends  among  the 
company.  'Here/  cried  Jenny,  'is  a  lad  half  awake.  What 
art  doing  here,  friend?'  The  lad  shook  his  head  mourn- 
fully. 'Hast  any  money?'  He  shook  his  head  again. 
Jenny  pulled  out  a  piece  of  silver.  'Go/  she  said.  'Get 
food,  and' — she  whispered — 'come  back  here  no  more.  Go 
— get  thee  home  again/  And  so,  let  me  believe,  she  saved 
one  lad  that  night  from  the  gallows.  For  he  got  up  slowly 
and  walked  out. 

There  was  another  lad  also  from  the  country  whose  fresh 
cheek  and  country  dress  betokened  the  fact.  He  sat  sheep- 
ishly, as  a  new  comer. 

Jenny  stopped  before  him.  'And  pray  what  do  they  call 
thee,  Sirrah?  Jack?  Twill  serve.  What  lay  is  it,  Jack? 
Oh!  Shoplifting?'  He  nodded.  'For  Mr.  Merridew?' she 
Whispered.  He  nodded  again.  'Drink  punch,  Jack,  and 
forget  thyself  awhile/ 

Some  of  the  men  were  dressed  like  the  Captain,  but  not  so 
fine :  the  buttons  had  been  cut  off  their  coats  and  their  shoes 
had  lost  the  buckles.  There  were  boys  among  them :  boys 
who  had  none  of  the  innocence  of  childhood ;  their  faces  be- 


Out  of  the  Frying  Pan  Into  the  Fire    137 

trayed  a  life  of  hunting  and  being  hunted :  they  were  always 
on  the  prowl  for  prey  or  were  running  away  and  hiding. 
They  had  all  been  whipped,  held  under  the  pump,  thrown 
into  ponds,  clapped  in  prison.  They  were  all  doomed  to  be 
hanged.  In  their  habits  of  drink  as  in  their  crimes,  they 
were  grown  up.  In  truth  there  were  no  faces  in  the  whole 
room  which  looked  more  hopeless  than  those  of  the  boys. 

The  women,  of  whom  there  were  nearly  as  many  as  there 
were  men,  were  either  bedizened  in  tawdry  finery  or  they 
were  in  rags :  some  wearing  no  more  than  a  frock  stiffened 
by  the  accumulation  of  years,  black  leather  stays,  and  a  ker- 
chief for  the  neck  with  another  for  the  head :  their  hair  hung 
about  their  shoulders  loose ;  and  undressed :  it  was  not  un- 
becoming in  the  young,  but  in  the  older  women  it  became 
what  is  called  rats'  tails.  With  most  of  the  men,  their  dress 
was  simple  and  scanty.  Shirts  were  scarce :  stockings  with- 
out holes  in  them  were  rare :  buttons  had  mostly  vanished. 

Most  of  them,  I  observed  further,  had  an  anxious,  hungry 
look:  not  the  look  of  a  creature  of  prey  which  has  always 
in  it  something  that  is  noble :  but  the  look  of  one  insufficiently 
fed.  I  believe  that  the  ordinary  lot  of  the  rogue  is,  even  on 
this  earth,  miserable  beyond  expression:  uncertain  as  to 
food :  cruelly  hard  in  cold  weather  in  the  matter  of  raiment. 

In  -a  little  while  they  were  all  happy :  happier,  I  am  sure, 
than  they  had  been  for  a  long  time.  While  they  drank  and 
while  they  talked,  I  observed  among  them  a  veritable 
brotherhood.  The  most  successful  rogue — he  in  gold  lace — 
was  hail  fellow  with  the  most  ragged.  And  although  the 
successful  rogue  stood  the  nearest  to  the  gallows,  and  he 
knew  it  and  the  other  rogue  knew  it,  yet  the  beginner  envied 
the  success  of  his  brother  as  a  soldier  envies  the  successful 
general.  They  drank  and  laughed:  they  drank  more  and 
they  laughed  more.  Then  the  Captain  called  silence  for  a 
song. 

'Now,  you  fiddler !'  he  cried  with  a  curse.  'Sit  up,  man, 
and  show  us  how  you  can  play/ 

The  tune,  the  Captain  told  me,  was  'The  Warbling  of  the 
Lark/  I  struck  up  that  air  which  every  frequenter  of 
Vauxhal'l,  or  even  the  Dog  and  Duck,  knows  very  well,  and 
the  Captain  began  his  'song. 

Now  in  such  a  company  I  expected  a  song  in  praise  of 
Roguery  and  Robbery ;  or  at  least  something  of  the  kind  in- 
troduced in  Gay's  Opera.  On  the  contrary,  the  song  which 


138  The  Orange  Girl 

the  Captain  gave  us  was  a  sentimental  ditty  which  you  may 
hear  at  any  Pleasure  Garden  on  a  summer  evening:  it  was 
all  about  the  flames  of  love  which  could  only  be  extinguished 
by  Chloe :  and  a  broken  heart :  and  darts  and  groves,  and,  in 
fact,  a  song  such  as  would  be  sung  in  a  concert  before  a 
party  of  ladies.  The  fellow  had  a  good  voice,  and  rolled  out 
his  lovesick  strains  to  the  admiration  of  the  women,  some 
of  whom  even  shed  tears.  This  is  the  kind  of  song  they 
like:  not  the  song  in  praise  of  a  Highwayman's  life,  because 
in  matters  of  imagination  these  women  are  but  poorly  pro- 
vided, and  they  always  see  the  reality  beyond  the  words,  and 
if  they  love  the  man  his  certain  end  makes  them  unhappy. 
But  hearts,  and  flames  and  love !  That,  if  you  please,  whidi 
is  unreal,  seems  real. 

When  he  finished,  Jenny  sprang  to  her  feet.  'I  will  dance 
for  you,  lads/  She  turned  to  me.  Tlay  up — the  Hey/ 

She  ran  into  the  middle  of  the  room,  bowed  to  the  people 
as  if  she  had  been  on  the  stage,  and  danced  with  such  grace 
and  freedom  and  simplicity  that  it  ravished  my  heart.  Her 
sister,  I  observed,  went  on  adding  up  figures  on  the  slate 
without  paying  the  least  attention  to  the  performance. 

'Ah !'  sard  her  mdther  growing  confidential.  Thus  would 
she  dance  when  she  was  quite  a  little  thing  on  the  stones  in 
front  of  the  dhurch,  when  the  fiddler  played  in  the  house.  A 
clever  girl,  she  was,  even  then,  a  clever  girl !  You  are  her 
friend.  I  hope,  Sir,  that  you  are  going  to  behave  handsome 
by  my  girl.  You  look  like  one  of  the  right  sort.  Make 
over,  while  there  is  time.  I  will  keep  the  swag  for  you — 
you  may  trust  the  poor  girl's  mother.  Many  a  brave  fellow 
she  might  have  had:  many  a  brave  fellow:  they  come  and 

go I  wish  you  a  long  rope  young  man,  if  so  be  you're 

kind  to  my  girl.  Life  is  short — what  odds,  so  long  as  'tis 
merry?  Where  do  you  work,  if  I  may  ask?' 

'Jenny  will  tell  you,  perhaps/  I  replied. 

'I  don't  know,  I  don't  know.  Since  she  left  off  the  orange 
line,  Jenny  hasn't  been  the  same  to  her  old  mother:  not  to 
tell  her  things,  I  mean,  and  to  take  her  advice.  I  should 
have  made  her  rich  'by  this  time  if  she  had  taken  my  advice/ 

'Many  people  like  to  have  their  own  way,  don't  they?' 

"They  do,  Sir — they  do — to  their  loss/  She  took  another 
pull  at  the  punch  and  began  to  get  maudlin  and  to  shed  tears 
— while  she  enlarged  upon  what  she  would  have  done  had 
Jenny  only  listened  to  her.  I  gathered  from  her  discourse 


Out  of  the  Frying  Pan  Into  the  Fire    139 

that  the  old  gipsy  woman,  like  the  whole  of  her  tribe,  was 
without  a  gleam  or  a  spark  of  virtue  or  goodness.  Her 
nature  was  sordid  and  depraved  through  and  through.  With 
such  a  mother — poor  Jenny ! 

Suddenly  the  old  woman  stopped  short  and  sat  upright 
with  a  look  of  terror. 

'Good  Lord!'  sne  murmured.  'It's  Mr.  Merridew!7 
At  sight  of  the  new-comer  standing  on  the  steps  a  dead 
silence  fell  upon  the  whole  Company.  All  knew  him  by 
name :  those  who  knew  his  face  whispered  to  each  other :  all 
quailed  before  him;  down  to  the  meanest  little  pickpocket, 
they  knew  him  and  feared  him.  Every  face  became  white; 
even  the  faces  of  the  women  who  shook  with  terror  on  ac- 
count of  the  men.  I  observed  the  girl  on  the  Captain's  knee 
catch  him  by  the  hand  and  place  herself  in  front  of  him,  as 
if  to  save  him.  Then  his  arm  left  her  waist  and  she  slipped 
down  and  sat  humbly  on  the  bench  beside  her  man.  Thus 
there  was  some  human  affection  among  these  poor  things. 
But  the  Captain's  face  blanched  with  terror  and  the  glass 
that  he  was  lifting  to  his  lips  remained  halfway  on  its  jour- 
ney. The  Bishop's  face  could  not  turn  white,  in  any  ex- 
tremity of  fear,  but  it  became  yellow — while  his  eyes  rolled 
about  and  he  grasped  the  table  beside  him  in  his  agitation. 
Doll,  I  observed,  after  a  glance  to  learn  the  cause  of  the  sud- 
den silence  went  on  sucking  her  fingers,  rubbing  out  the 
figures  on  the  slate  and  adding  them  up  again. 
'Who  is  it?'  I  whispered  to  Jenny. 

'Hush !  It's  the  thief-taker :  they  are  all  afraid  that  their 
time  'has  come.  If  he  wants  one  of  them  he  will  have  to 
get  up  and  go.' 

'Won't  they  fight,  then?     Do  they  sit  still  to  be  taken?' 
'Fight  Mr.  Merridew  ?     As  well  walk  straight  to  Tyburn.' 
The  man  was  a  'large  and  heavy  creature,  having  some- 
thing of  the  look  of  a  prosperous  farmer.     His  face,  how- 
ever, was  coarse  and  brutal.     And  he  looked  round  the  terri- 
fied room  as  if  he  was  selecting  a  pig  from  a  herd,  with  as 
much  pity  and  no  more !     This  was  the  man  whose  perjuries 
had  added  a  new  detainer  to  my  imprisonment.     I  could 
have  fallen  upon  (him  with  the  first  weapon  handy,  but  re- 
frained. 

He  came  into  the  room.  'Your  place  stinks,  Mother/ 
he  said,  'and  it's  so  thick  with  tobacco  and  the  steam  of 
the  punch  that  a  body  can't  see  across/ 


140  The  Orange  Girl 

'To  be  sure,  Mr.  Merridew/  the  old  woman  apologised. 
'If  we'd  known  you  were  coming ' 

'There  would  have  been  a  large  company,  would  there 
not?' 

'Well,  Sir,  you  see  us  here,  as  we  are,  as  orderly  and 
peaceful  a  house  as  your  Worship  would  desire.' 

The  fellow  grinned.  'Orderly,  truly,  mother.  It  is  a 
quiet  and  a  well-conducted  company,  isn't  it?  These  are 
quiet  and  well-conducted  girls  are  they  not?'  He  chucked 
one  of  the  girls  under  the  chin. 

'As  much  as  you  like — there/  said  the  girl,  impudently, 
'so  long  as  you  keep  your  ringers  off  my  neck/ 

At  this  playful  allusion  to  his  profession,  that  of  sending 
people  to  the  gallows,  Mr.  Merridew  laughed  and  patted  the 
girl  on  the  cheek.  'My  dear/  he  said,  'if  you  were  on  my 
list  you  should  get  rich  and  you  should  'have  the  longest  rope 
of  any  one/ 

'The  man/  Jenny  told  me  afterwards,  'is  the  greatest  vil- 
lain in  the  whole  world.  He  is  a  thief-taker  by  profes- 
sion/ 

'You  mean,  'he  informs  and  takes  the  reward.' 

'Yes:  but  he  makes  the  thing  -which  he  sells.  He  lays 
traps  for  pickpockets  and  such  small  fry  and  while  he  has 
them  in  his  power  he  encourages  'them  to  become  bigger 
rogues  who  will  be  worth  more  to  him.  Do  you  under- 
stand? A  highwayman  is  worth  about  eighty  pounds' 
reward  to  him :  a  man  returned  from  transportation  before 
his  time  is  worth  no  more  than  forty.  He  does  not  there- 
fore give  up  the  returned  convict  until  he  has  returned  to 
his  'highway  robberies.  All  those  fellows  you  saw  last  night 
are  in  his  power.  The  Captain  is  a  returned  convict  whose 
time  must  before  long  be  up,  for  Merridew  only  allows  a 
certain  amount  of  rope.  He  says  he  cannot  afford  more. 
As  for  the  'Bishop,  he  will  go  on  longer :  he  is  useful  in  many 
other  ways :  he  can  write  letters  and  forge  things  and  invent 
villainies:  he  persuades  the  young  fellows  to  take  to  the 
road.  I  think  he  will  be  suffered  to  go  on  as  long  as  his 
powers  last/ 

'Why  was  your  mother  so  terrified  ?' 

Jenny  hesitated.  'Because — I  told  you,  but  you  do  not 
understand — because  she,  too,  is  in  his  power  for  receiving 
stolen  goods.  My  mother  is  what  they  call  a  fence.  Oh  I* 


Out  of  the  Frying  Pan  Into  the  Fire    141 

she  shook  herself  impatiently :  'they  are  all  rogues  together. 
I  wonder  I  can  ever  hold  up  my  head.  To  think  of  the 
Black  Jack  and  the  Company  there !' 

The  Captain  sprang  to  his  feet  with  an  effort  at  ease  and 
politeness.  'What  will  your  Honour  think  of  us  ?'  he  cried. 
'Gentlemen,  Mr.  Merridew  is  thirsty  and  no  one  offers  him 
a  drink.  Call  for  it,  sir — call  for  the  best  this  house  affords/ 

'Punch,  mother/  the  great  man  replied.  'Thank  you, 
Captain/ 

Then  the  Bishop,  not  to  be  outdone,  got  up  too.  'Gentle- 
men/ he  said,  'let  us  all  drink  to  the  health  of  Mr.  Merridew. 
He  is  our  truest  friend.  Now,  gentlemen.  Together. 
After  me/  He  held  up  his  hand.  They  watched  the  sign 
and  all  together  drank  and  shouted — hollow  shouts  they 
were — to  the  health  of  the  man  who  was  going  to  sell  them 
all  to  the  hangman.  I  wondered  that  they  had  not  run  upon 
him  with  their  knives  and  despatched  him  as  he  stood  before 
them,  unarmed.  But  this  they  dared  not  do. 

Mr.  Merridew  acknowledged  the  compliment.  'Boys 
and  gallant  riders/  he  said,  'I  thank  you.  There  was  a 
friend  of  ours  whom  I  expected  to  find  here,  but  I  do  not 
see  him/  He  looked  round  the  room  curiously.  I  think  he 
enjoyed  the  general  terror.  'No  matter,  I  shall  find  him  at 
the  Spotted  Dog/ 

Every  one  breathed  relief.  No  one,  then,  of  that  company 
was  wanted.  The  Captain  sat  down  and  drank  off  a  whole 
glass  of  punch :  the  rest  of  the  men  looked  at  each  other  as 
sailors  might  look  whose  ship  "has  just  scraped  the  rock. 

'I  like  to  look  in,  friendly,  as  it  might  be,'  Mr.  Merridew 
went  on,  'especially  when  I  don't  want  anybody — just  to  see 
you  enjoying  yourselves,  happy  and  comfortable  together, 
as  you  should  be.  There's  no  profession  more  happy  and 
comfortable,  is  there?  That's  what  I  always  say,  even  to 
the  ungrateful.  Plenty  to  eat:  no  work  to  do:  no  masters 
over  you:  girls,  and  drink,  and  music,  and  dancing,  every 
night.  Find  me  another  trade  half  so  prosperous.  Mother, 
I'll  take  a  second  glass  of  punch.  I  drink  your  healths — all 
of  you — Bless  you!'  The  fellow  looked  so  brutal,  and  so 
cunning  that  I  longed  to  kill  him  as  one  would  kill  a  noxious 
beast. 

'A  long  rope  and  a  merry  life,'  he  went  on.  'It  is  not  my 
fault,  gentlemen,  that  the  rope  is  not  longer.  The  expenses 


142  The  Orange  Girl 

are  great  and  the  profits  are  small.  Meantime,  go  on  and 
prosper.  You  are  all  safe  under  my  care.  Without  me,  who 
knows  what  would  happen  to  all  this  goodly  company?  A 
long  rope,  I  say,  and  a  merry  life.' 

He  tossed  off  his  glass  and  went  out. 

When  he  was  gone,  the  talk  began  again,  but  it  was  flat. 
The  mirth  had  gone  out  of  the  party.  It  was  as  if  the  Angel 
of  Death  himself  had  passed  through  the  room. 

I  played  to  them,  "but  only  the  boys  would  dance :  Jenny 
asked  them  to  sing,  but  only  the  girls  would  sing,  and,  truth 
to  say,  the  poor  creatures'  efforts  were  not  musical.  They 
drank,  but  moodily.  The  Captain  took  glass  after  glass,  but 
his  arm  had  left  the  girl's  waist:  she  now  sat  neglected  on 
the  bench  beside  him.  The  Bishop,  sobered  by  the  fright, 
said  nothing,  but  sat  with  his  eyes  fixed  upon  the  sanded 
floor,  shuddering.  He  thought  his  time  had  come,  and  the 
shock  made  him  for  the  moment  reflect.  Yet  what  was  the 
good  of  reflecting?  They  were  in  the  hands  of  a  relentless 
monster:  he  would  sell  them  when  it  was  worth  his  while 
to  put  younger  men  in  their  place.  They  tried  to  forget  this, 
but  from  time  to  time,  his  presence,  or  the  absence  of  one  of 
their  Company,  reminded  them  and  then  they  were  subdued 
for  a  time.  It  filled  me  with  pity :  it  made  me  think  a  little 
better  of  them  that  they  should  be  capable  of  being  thus 
affected. 

Jenny  touched  my  arm.  'Come,'  she  said.  'Let  us  be 
gone.'  So  without  any  farewells  she  led  the  way  out.  The 
old  woman,  by  this  time,  was  sound  asleep  beside  her  half 
finished  glass:  and  Doll  was  still  adding  up  the  figures  on 
her  slate,  puting  her  finger  in  'her  mouth,  rubbing  out  and 
adding  up  again. 

Outside,  the  tall  white  spire  of  St.  Giles  looked  down  upon 
us.  In  the  churchyard  the  white  tombs  stood  in  peace,  and 
overhead  the  moon  sailed  in  splendour. 

Jenny  drew  a  long  breath :  she  caught  one  of  the  rails  of 
the  churchyard  and  looked  in  curiously. 

'Will,'  she  said  shuddering,  'I  am  ashamed  of  myself  be- 
cause the  manners  and  the  talk  come  back  to  me  so  easily. 
Once  I  am  witfh  them,  I  become  one  of  them  again.  I 
tremble  when  the  man  Merridew  appears.  It  is  as  if  he  will 
do  me,  too,  a  mischief  some  day.  I  cannot  forget  the  old 
times  and  the  old  talk.  Yet  I  know  how  dreadful  it^  is. 
Look  at  the  graves,  Will.  Under  them  they  sleep  so  quiet; 


Out  of  the  Frying  Pan  Into  the  Fire    143 

they  never  move :  they  don't  hear  anything :  and  beside  them 
every  night  collects  this  company  of  gaol-birds  and  Tyburn 
birds.  Why,  they  don't  shiver  and  shake  when  Mr.  Merri- 
dew  looks  in.' 

'Let  us  get  back,  Jenny.'     I  shuddered,  like  all  the  rest. 

'Will,  I  have  seen  that  man — that  monster — that  wretch — 
for  whom  no  punishment  is  enough — three  times.  Each 
time  I  have  felt  that,  like  the  rest  of  those  poor  rogues,  my 
own  life  was  in  his  hands.  Do  you  think  he  can  do  me  a 
mischief?  Why  do  I  ask?  I  know  that  'he  will.  I  am 
never  wrong/ 

'What  mischief,  Jenny,  could  he  do?' 

'I  don't  know.  It  is  a  prophetic  feeling.  But  who  knows 
•what  such  a  villain  may  be  concocting?  Good-night,  you 
happy  people  in  the  graves.  Good-night.' 

I  drew  her  away,  and  walked  with  'her  to  her  own  do'or  in 
the  Square. 

'Will  ?'  she  asked,  'what  do  you  think  of  me  now  ?' 

'Whatever  I  think,  Jenny,  I  am  all  wonder  and  admira- 
tion that  you  are — what  you  are — when  I  see — what  you 
might  have  been/ 

She  burst  into  tears.  She  flung  her  empty  basket  out  into 
the  road.  'Oh/  <s*he  cri'ed,  'if  I  could  escape  from  them !  If 
I  could  only  escape  from  them  for  ever!  I  should  think 
nothing  too  terrible  if  only  I  could  escape  from  them !' 

A  month 'or  two  later  I  remembered  those  words.  Noth- 
ing too  terrible  if  only  she  could  escape  from  them ! 


CHAPTER  VI 

A  WARNING  AND  ANOTHER  OFFER 

As  SOON  as  we  had  once  more  found  the  means  of  keeping 
ourselves  we  went  back  to  our  former  abode  under  the 
shadow  of  Lambeth  Church  on  the  Bank  looking  over  the 
river  on  one  side  and  over  the  meadows  cand  orchards  of 
Lambeth  Marsh  on  the  other.  The  air  which  sweeps  up 
the  river  with  every  tide  is  fresh  an'd  Strong  and  pure ;  good 
for  the  child,  not  to  speak  of  the  child's  mother,  while  the 


144  The  Orange  Girl 

people,  few  in  number,  are  generally  'honest  though  humble : 
for  the  most  part  they  are  fishermen. 

Here  I  should  have  been  happy  but  for  the  thought,  sug- 
gested by  Jenny,  that  my  cousin  and  his  attorney  Probus 
were  perhaps  devising  some  new  means  of  persecution,  and 
that  the  man  Merridew,  who  had  perjured  himself  concern- 
ing me  already,  whose  sinister  face  I  had  gazed  upon  with 
terror,  so  visibly  was  the  mark  of  Cain  stamped  upon  it, 
was  but  a  tool  of  the  attorney. 

Yet  -what  could  they  devise?  If  they  swore  between  them 
another  debt,  my  patron  Jenny  promised  to  provide  me  with 
the  help  of  a  lawyer.  What  else  could  they  do?  It  is  a 
most  miserable  feeling  that  someone  in  the  world  is  plotting 
your  destruction,  you  know  not  how. 

However,  on  Sunday  afternoon — it  was  in  November, 
when  the  days  are  already  short,  we  had  a  visit  from  my 
father's  old  clerk,  Ramage. 

He  was  restless  in  his  manner :  he  was  evidently  in  some 
anxiety  of  mind.  After  a  few  words  he  began : 

'Mr.  Will/  he  said,  'I  have  much  to  say.  I  have  come,  I 
fear,  to  tell  you  something  that  will  make  you  uneasy/ 

'I  will  leave  you  alone/  said  Alice,  taking  up  the  child. 

'No,  Madam,  no,  I  would  rather  that  you  heard.  You 
may  advise.  Oh!  Madam,  I  never  thought  the  day  would 
come  that  I  should  reveal  my  master's  secrets.  I  eat  his 
bread ;  I  take  his  wages :  and  I  am  come  here  to  betray  his 
most  private  affairs.' 

Then  do  not  betray  them,  Mr.  Ramage/  said  Alice.  'Fol- 
low your  own  conscience/ 

'It  ought  to  be  your  bread  and  your  wages,  Mr.  Will,  and 
would  have  been  but  for  tales  and  inventions.  Sir,  in  a 
word,  there  is  villainy  afloat ' 

'What  kind  of  villainy?' 

'I  know  all  they  do.  Sir,  there  is  that  sum  of  one  hun- 
dred thousand  pounds  in  the  hands  of  trustees,  payable  to 
the  survivor  of  you  two.  That  is  the  bottom  of  the  whole 
villainy.  Well,  they  are  mad  to  make  you  sell  your  chance/ 

'I  know  that/ 

'Mr.  Matthew,  more  than  a  year  ago,  offered  Mr.  Probus 
a  thousand  pounds  if  he  could  persuade  you  to  sell  it  for 
three  thousand/ 

'That  is  why  he  was  so  eager/  This  was  exactly  how 
Jenny  read  the  business. 


Out  of  the  Frying  Pan  Into  the  Fire    145 

'Yes,  he  reported  that  you  would  not  sell,  he  said  that 
ii  it  was  made  worth  his  while,  he  would  find  a  way  to  make 
you.' 

That  is  why  he  put  me  in  the  King's  Bench,  I  suppose  ?' 

'That  was  agreed  upon  between  them.  Sir,  if  ever  there 
was  an  infamous  conspiracy,  this  was  one.  Probus  invented 
it.  He  said  that  he  would  keep  you  there  till  you  rotted; 
he  said  that  when  you  had  been  there  four  or  five  months 
you  would  be  glad  to  get  out  on  any  terms.  You  were 
there  for  -a  year  or  more.  Probus  sent  people  to  report  how 
you  were  looking.  He  told  Mr.  Matthew  with  sorrow  that 
you  were  looking  strong  and  hearty.  Then  you  were  taken 
out.  They  were  furious.  They  knew  not  who  was  the 
friend.  An  attorney  named  Dewberry  had  done  it.  That 
was  all  they  could  find  out.  I  know  not  what  this  Mr.  Dew- 
berry said  to  Mr.  Probus,  but  certain  I  am  that  they  will  not 
try  that  plan  any  more.' 

'I  am  glad  to  hear  so  much/ 

'Mr.  Will,  there  is  more  behind.  I  know  very  well  what 
goes  on,  I  say.  A  little  while  after  the  death  of  your  father, 
when  the  Alderman  retired  and  Mr.  Matthew  was  left  sole 
active  partner,  he  began  to  borrow  money  of  Mr.  Probus, 
who  came  often  to  see  him.  I  could  hear  all  they  said  from 
my  desk  in  the  corner  of  the  outer  counting-house/ 

'Ay !     Ay !     I  remember  your  desk/ 

'Sitting  there  I  heard  every  word.  And  I  am  glad,  Mr. 
Will — I  ought  to  be  ashamed,  but  I  am  glad  that  I  listened. 
Well.  He  began  to  borrow  money  of  Mr.  Probus  at  15 
per  cent.,  on  the  security  of  the  business.  Anyone  would 
lend  money  to  such  a  house  at  10  per  cent.  He  said  he 
wanted  to  put  the  money  into  the  business ;  to  buy  new  ships 
and  to  develop  it.  This  made  me  suspicious.  Why?  Be- 
cause our  House,  in  your  father's  time,  Sir,  wanted  no  fresh 
capital;  it  developed  and  grew  on  its  own  capital.  This  I 
knew.  The  business  wanted  no  new  capital.  What  did  he 
borrow  the  money  for  then?' 

'I  know  not,  indeed/ 

'He  bought  no  new  ships:  he  never  meant  to  buy  any. 
Mr.  Will,  to  my  certain  knowledge' — here  his  voice  deep- 
ened to  a  whisper,  'he  wanted  for  some  reason  or  other  more 
ready  money.  I  am  certain  that  he  has  got  through  all  the 
money  that  your  father  left  him:  I  know  that  he  has  sold 
some  of  the  ships :  he  has  mortgaged  the  rest ;  the  business 


146  The  Orange  Girl 

of  the  House  decays  and  sinks  daily;  he  has  got  rid  of  all 
the  money  that  Mr.  Probus  advanced  him.  It  was  £25,000, 
for  which  he  is  to  pay  15  per  cent,  on  £40,000.  Tis  a  harpy 
— a  shark — a  common  rogue !' 

'How  has  he  lost  this  money  ?'  I  pretended  not  to  know : 
but,  as  you  have  heard,  I  knew,  perfectly  well. 

'That,  Sir,  I  cannot  tell  you.  I  have  no  knowledge  how 
a  man  can,  in  three  years,  get  through  such  an  amazing 
amount  of  money  and  do  so  much  mischief  to  an  old  es- 
tablished business.  But  the  case  is  as  I  tell  you.' 

'This  is  very  serious,  Ramage.     Does  my  uncle  know  ?' 

'He  does  not,  Sir.  That  poor  man  will  be  a  bankrupt  in 
his  old  age.  It  will  kill  him.  It  will  kill  him.  And  I  must 
not  tell  him.  Remember  that  most  of  what  I  tell  you  is  what 
I  overheard/ 

'I  think  that  my  uncle  ought  to  know.'  I  remembered 
Jenny's  advice.  Here  was  another  opportunity.  I  should 
have  told  him.  But  I  neglected  this  chance  as  well. 

'I  cannot  tell  him,  Sir.  There  is,  however,  more.  This 
concerns  you,  Mr.  Will.  Yesterday  in  the  afternoon  Mr. 
Probus  came  to  the  counting-house.  He  came  for  the  in- 
terest on  his  money.  Mr.  Matthew  told  him,  shortly,  that 
it  was  not  convenient  to  pay  him.  Mr.  Probus  humbly  ex- 
plained that  he  had  need  of  the  money  for  his  own  occa- 
sions. Now  Mr.  Matthew  had  been  drinking;  he  often  goes 
to  the  tavern  of  a  forenoon  and  returns  with  a  red  face  and 
heavy  shoulders.  Perhaps  yesterday  he  had  been  drinking 
more  than  was  usual  with  him.  Otherwise,  he  might  not 
have  been  so  plain-spoken  with  his  creditor.  "Mr.  Pro- 
bus,"  he  said,  "it  is  time  to  speak  the  truth  with  you.  I  can- 
not pay  you  the  interest  of  your  money — either  to-day  or  at 
any  other  time." 

'  "Cannot. .  .cannot. .  .pay?  Mr.  Halliday,  what  do  you 
mean  ?" 

:  "I  say,  Sir,  that  I  cannot  pay  your  interest. .  .and  that 
your  principal,  the  money  you  lent  me — yes — your  £25,000 — 
is  gone.  You'll  never  get  a  penny  of  it,"  and  then  he  laughed 
scornfully.  I  heard  Mr.  Probus's  step  as  he  sprang  to  his 
feet,  I  heard  him  strike  the  table  with  his  open  hand.  His 
face  I  could  not  see. 

"Sir,"  he  cried,  "explain.     Where  is  my  money?" 
"Gone,  I  say.     Everything  is  gone.     Your  money;  my 
money;  all  that  I  could  raise — my  ships  are  sold;  the  busi- 


Out  of  the  Frying  Pan  Into  the  Fire    147 

ness  is  gone:  the  creditors  are  gathering.  Probus,  I  shall 
be  a  bankrupt  in  less  than  three  months.  I  have  worked  it 
out;  I  can  play  one  against  the  other,  but  only  for  three 
months.  Then  the  House  must  be  bankrupt." 

'  'The  House — bankrupt? — this  House — Halliday  Broth- 
ers ?  You  had  a  hundred  thousand  of  your  own  when  you 
succeeded.  You  had  credit:  you  had  a  noble  fleet:  and  a 
great  business.  And  there's  your  father's  money  in  the 
business  as  well.  It  can't  be  gone." 

'  "It  is  g;one — I  tell  you — all  gone — my  money,  Probus 
— integer  vitae — that's  gone :  and  your  money,  old  Sceler- 
isque  Probus.  That's  gone  too.  All  gone — all  gone." 
To  be  sure  he  was  three  parts  drunk.  I  heard  Mr.  Probus 
groan  and  sink  back  into  his  chair.  Then  he  got  up  again. 
"Tell  me,"  he  said  again,  "tell  me,  you  poor  drivelling 
drunken  devil — I'll  kill  you  if  you  laugh.  Tell  me,  where 
is  the  money  gone?" 

*  "I  don't  know,"  his  voice  was  thick  with  drink,  "I  don't 
know.  It's  all  gone.  Everything's  gone." 

'  "I  lent  you  the  money  to  put  into  the  business — it  must 
be  in  the  business  still." 

'  "It  never  was  in  the  business.  I  tell  you,  Probus — it's 
all  gone." 

'There  was  silence  for  a  few  minutes.  Then  Mr.  Probus 
said  softly,  "Mr.  Halliday,  we  are  old  friends — tell  me  that 
you  have  only  been  playing  off  a  joke  upon  me.  You  are  a 
little  disguised  in  liquor.  I  can  pass  over  this  accident. 
The  money  is  in  the  'business,  you  know ;  in  this  fine  old  busi- 
ness, where  you  put  it  when  you  borrowed  it." 

1  "It's  all  gone — all  gone,"  he  repeated.  "Man,  why 
won't  you  believe?  I  tell  you  that  everything  is  gone. 
Make  me  a  bankrupt  at  once,  and  you  will  share  with  the 
creditors :  oh !  yes,  you  will  be  very  lucky :  you  will  divide 
between  you  the  furniture  of  the  counting-house  and  the 
empty  casks  on  the  Quay." 

'Then  Mr.  Probus  began  to  curse  and  to  swear,  and  to 
threaten.  He  would  throw  Mr.  Matthew  into  prison  and 
keep  him  there  all  his  life:  'he  would  prosecute  him  at  the 
Old  Bailey :  he  called  him  thief,  scoundrel,  villain :  Mr.  Mat- 
thew laughed  in  his  drunken  mood.  He  would  not  explain 
how  the  money  was  lost :  he  only  repeated  that  it  was  gone 
— all  gone. 

'Mr.  Will — I  know  that  he  was  speaking  the  truth.    I 


148  The  Orange  Girl 

had  seen  tnTngs  done — you  cannot  hide  things  from  an  old 
accountant  who  keeps  the  books :  cargoes  sold  at  a  sacrifice 
for  ready  money:  ships  sold:  our  splendid  fleet  thrown 
away:  there  were  six  tall  vessels  in  the  West  India  trade: 
one  was  cast  away:  the  underwriters  paid  for  her.  Where 
is  that  money?  Where  are  the  other  five  ships?  Sold. 
Where  is  that  money?  Our  coffers  are  empty:  there  is 
no  running  cash  at  the  Bank :  the  wharf  is  deserted :  clerks 
are  dismissed :  creditors  are  put  off.  I  know  that  what  Mr. 
Matthew  said  was  true :  but  for  the  life  of  me  I  cannot  tell 
what  he  has  done  with  the  money  unless  he  has  thrown  it 
into  the  river. 

'Then  I  think  that  Mr.  Matthew  took  more  drink,  for 
he  made  no  more  reply,  and  Mr.  Probus,  after  calling  him 
hog  and  beast  and  other  names  of  like  significance,  left  him. 

'When  he  'came  out  of  the  counting-house  he  was  like 
one  possessed  of  a  devil :  'his  face  distorted :  his  eyes  blood- 
shot: his  lips  moving:  his  hands  trembling.  Sir,  although 
he  is  a  villain  I  felt  sorry  for  him.  He  has  lost  all  that  he 
cared  for :  all  that  he  valued :  and  since  he  is  now  old,  and 
can  make  no  more  money,  he  has  lost  perhaps  his  means  of 
livelihood/ 

Ramage  paused.  Alice  brought  him  a  glass  of  beer,  her 
own  home-brewed.  Thus  refreshed,  he  presently  went  on 
again. 

'After  two  days  Probus  came  again  to  the  counting-house. 
Mr.  Matthew  was  sober. 

'  "Probus,"  he  said,  "I  told  you  the  other  day  when  I  was 
drunk  what  I  should  have  kept  from  you  if  I  was  sober. 
However,  now  you  know  what  I  told  you  was  the  truth." 

'"Is  it  all  true?" 

'  "It  is  all  true.     Everything  is  gone." 

"But  how — how — how?"     I  heard  his  lamentable  cry 
and  I  could  imagine  his  arm  waving  about. 

'  "This  way  and  that  way.  Enough  that  it  is  all  gone." 
"Mr.  Matthew,"  I  think  he  sat  down  because  he  groaned 
— which  a  man  cannot  do  properly — that  is  to  say  movingly, 
unless  he  is  sitting — "I  have  been  thinking — Good  God !  of 
what  else  could  I  think?  You  can  keep  yourself  afloat  for 
three  months  more,  you  say — Heavens !  Halliday  Brothers 
to  go  in  three  months !  And  my  money !  Where — where — 
where  has  it  gone?" 


Out  of  the  Frying  Pan  Into  the  Fire    149 

'  "In  about  three  months — or  may  be  sooner,  the  end  must 
come." 

'  "Mr.  Matthew,"  he  lowered  his  voice,  "there  is  one 
chance  left — one  chance — I  may  get  back  my  money — by 
that  one  chance." 

'  "What  chance  ?    The  money  is  all  gone." 

'  "If  we  can  make  your  cousin  part  with  his  chance  of 
the  succession,  we  can  raise  money  on  it  before  the  bank- 
ruptcy— we  can  divide  it  between  us." 

'  "Put  it  out  of  your  thoughts.  My  cousin  is  the  most 
obstinate  self-willed  brute  that  ever  lived.  You  couldn't 
bend  him  with  the  King's  Bench  Prison.  You  cannot  bend 
him  now." 

'  "I  will  try  again.  He  is  still  poor.  He  plays  the  fiddle 
at  some  wretched  gardens  I  believe.  He  lives  where  he 
did  before — I  know  where  to  find  him.  I  will  try  again. 
If  I  succeed  we  could  raise  say  £50,000  upon  the  succession, 
it  should  be  more  but  you  are  both  young.  Let  me  see,  that 
will  be  £40,000  for  me;  £6,000  interest  due  to  me:  that 
makes  £46,000  for  me  and  £4,000  for  you." 

"No,  friend  Probus.  You  have  lent  me  £25,000.  That 
you  shall  take  and  no  more.  If  you  are  not  content  with 
that  you  shall  have  none.  Remember  that  the  money  must  be 
raised  by  me  for  my  own  use,  not  by  you.  Get  him  to  sign 
if  you  can — and  you  shall  have  back  all  your  money,  but 
without  any  interest.  If  you  think  you  are  going  to  get  all 
this  money  for  yourself,  let  me  tell  you  that  you  are  mis- 
taken." 

'Mr.  Matthew  can  be  as  hard  as — as  your  father,  some- 
times. He  was  hard  now.  Well,  the  pair  wrangled  over 
these  terms  for  a  long  time.  At  last  it  was  arranged  that  if 
Mr.  Probus  can  persuade  you  to  sign  the  paper  which  he 
is  to  bring  you  he  is  to  take  £25,000  and  interest  on  that  and 
not  on  the  alleged  £40,000,  at  15  per  cent.  And  Mr.  Mat- 
thew is  to  pay  you  the  sum  required  to  buy  out.  When  they 
had  completed  this  arrangement  Mr.  Probus  started  another 
line  of  discourse.  Now  listen  to  this,  Mr.  Will,  because  it 
concerns  you  very  closely. 

'  "If,"  he  said,  "your  cousin  were  to  die — actually  to  die 


'  "He  won't  die.     I  wish  he  would." 
'  "I  said — If  he  were  to  die — you  would  then  immediately 
take  over  £100,000  together  with  the  interest  at  5  per  cent. 


150  The  Orange  Girl 

already  accumulated  for  three  years,  namely,  about  £115,000. 
That  would  put  all  square  again.  You  could  get  back  some 
of  your  ships  and  your  credit." 

'  "What's  the  use  ?  Man,  I  have  told  you — my  cousin  is 
a  selfish,  unfeeling,  obstinate  Brute.  He  won't  die." 

'  "I  said.  If  he  -were  to  'die.  That  is  what  I  said.  If 
he  were  to  die." 

'Then  there  was  silence  for  a  space. 

'  "Probus,"  said  Mr.  Matthew,  "I  believe  you  are  a  devil. 
Tell  me  what  you  mean.  We  can't  make  him  die  by  wish- 
ing." 

"I  was  only  supposing:  If  he  were  to  die — strange  things 
have  happened — would  you  be  disposed  to  let  me  take  the 
half  of  that  money — say  £55,000?" 

'  "If  he  were  to  die,"  Mr.  Matthew  repeated.  "Have  you 
heard,  by  accident,  that  he  is  ill?  Has  he  taken  small-pox, 
or  gaol  fever?  I  did  hear  that  was  gaol  fever  in  Newgate 
some  time  ago." 

'  "No :  on  the  contrary,  I  believe  that  he  is  in  perfect 
health  at  present.  Still,  he  might  die.  Anybody  may  die, 
you  know." 

"Why  do  you  say  that  he  may  die?0 

*  "I  only  put  the  case.  Anybody  may  die.  What  do  you 
say  about  my  proposal?" 

'  "You  call  it  a  proposal — Man — you  look  like  a  murderer 
— are  you  going  to  murder  him  ?" 

'  "Certainly  not.     Well — what  do  you  say  ?" 

'  "Well — if  you  are  not  going  to  murder  him,  what  do  you 
mean?" 

'  "Men  die  of  many  complaints,  besides  murder.  Some 
men  get  themselves  into  the  clutches  of  the  law "  ' 

When  Ramage  said  this,  I  became  suddenly  aware  of  a 
great  gulf  opening  at  my  feet  with  a  prospect  of  danger 
such  as  I  had  never  before  contemplated.  I  thought  that 
the  man  might  swear  upon  me  some  crime  of  which  I  was 
innocent  and  so  bring  it  home  to  me  by  a  diabolical  artifice 
that  I  should  be  accused,  found  guilty,  and  executed.  I 
reeled  and  turned  pale. 

Alice  caught  my  hand.     'Have  faith,  my  dear/  she  said. 

Yet  the  thought  was  like  a  knife  piercing  me  through 
and  through.  I  could  not  afterwards  shake  it  off.  And 
I  made  up  my  mind — I  know  not  why — that  the  charge 
.would  take  the  form  of  an  accusation  of  forgery.  « 


Out  of  the  Frying  Pan  Into  the  Fire    151 

'  "Probus,"  said  Mr.  Matthew,  "I  will  have  nothing  to 
do  with  this " 

:  "Sir,  you  need  not.  Give  me  your  word  only,  your  sim- 
ple word  that  if  your  cousin  refuses  to  sign  the  paper  I  shall 
lay  before  him,  so  that  you  cannot  raise  money  on  that  suc- 
cession— and  if  within  two  months  of  this  day  your  cousin 
dies,  so  that  you  will  succeed  before  you  are  bankrupt,  I 
am  to  take  half  that  money  in  full  discharge  of  all  my  claims. 
That  is  all.  I  will  leave  you  now,  to  think  the  matter  over." 

'He  went  away.  The  next  day  he  returned,  bringing  with 
him  a  man  whom  I  had  never  seen  before. 

'  "Mr.  Matthew,"  he  said,  "I  have  brought  you  a  gentle- 
man whose  acquaintance  with  our  criminal  law  is  vast — 
probably  unequaled.  His  name,  Sir,  is  Merridew." 

1  "His  honour  says  no  more  than  what  is  true/'  said  Mr. 
Merridew.  "I  know  more  than  most.  I  understand  you 
want  me  to  advise  you  on  a  little  matter  of  prosecution, 
Well,  Sir,  I  can  only  say  that  if  you  want  a  friend  put  out 
of  the  way,  so  to  speak,  nothing  is  easier,  for  them  that 
knows  how  to  work  the  job  and  can  command  the  instru- 
ments. It  is  only  a  question  of  pay."  Then  they  talked 
in  whispers  and  I  heard  no  more.  When  they  were  gone 
Mr.  Matthew  began  to  drink  again. 

That  is  all,  Mr.  Will.  But  have  a  care.  You  now  know 
what  to  expect,  sir ;  there  will  be  no  pity  from  any  of  them. 
Have  a  care.  Go  away.  Go  to  some  place  where  they  can- 
not find  you.  Sir,  the  man  Probus  is  mad.  He  is  mad 
with  the  misery  of  losing  his  money.  There  is  nothing  that 
he  will  not  do.  He  is  a  money-lender:  his  money  is  all  in 
all  to  him:  his  profession  and  his  pride  and  everything. 
And  he  has  lost  his  money.  Go  out  of  his  way/ 

Is  that  all,  Ramage?' 

'Yes,  Sir.     That  is  all  I  had  to  say/ 

'Then,  my  old  friend,  you  have  come  just  in  time,  for  if 
I  mistake  not  there  is  Mr.  Probus  himself  walking  across 
the  meadow  with  the  intention  of  calling  here.  You  could 
not  have  chosen  a  better  time.'  Indeed,  that  was  the  case. 
The  man  was  actually  walking  quickly  across  the  Marsh. 
'Now,  Ramage/  I  said,  'it  would  be  well  for  you  to  hear 
what  he  has  to  say.  Go  into  the  kitchen  and  wait  with  the 
door  ajar — go.  Alice,  my  dear,  stay  here  with  me/ 

'Remember,  Will/  she  said,  'it  was  your  father's  last  com- 


152  The  Orange  Girl 

marid.    To  sell  it  would  be  to  sell  your  father's  forgiveness 
— a  dreadful  thing/ 

The  man  stood  at  the  open  door.  Ramage  was  right. 
He  looked  truly  dreadful.  Anxiety  was  proclaimed  in  his 
face,  with  eagerness  and  courage:  he  reminded  me  of  a 
weasel,  which  for  murderous  resolution  is  said  to  surpass 
the  whole  of  the  animal  creation.  He  came  in  blinking 
after  the  light  and  offered  me  his  hand,  but  I  refused  it. 

Tie!'  he  said.  Tie,  Mr.  Will!  This  is  ill  done.  You 
confuse  the  attorney's  zeal  for  his  clients  with  an  act  of 
hostility  to  yourself.  Put  that  out  of  your  thoughts,  I  pray.' 

'Why  do  you  come  here,  Mr.  Probus  ?' 

'I  said  to  myself:  It  is  not  easy  to  catch  a  man  of  Mr. 
William's  reputation  at  home,  his  society  being  eagerly 
sought  after.  I  will  therefore  visit  him  on  Sunday.  Not. 
in  the  morning,  when  he  will  be  lifting  the  hymn  in  Church : 
but  in  the  afternoon.  I  came  here  straight  from  St. 
George's,  Borough,  where  I  sometimes  repair  for  morning 
service.  A  holy  discourse,  Mr.  William,  moving  and  con- 
vincing.' His  eyes  kept  shifting  to  and  fro  as  he  spoke. 

'Very  likely.  But  we  will  not  talk  about  sermons.  Look 
ye,  Mr.  Probus,  your  presence  here  is  not  desirect.  Say 
what  you  have  to  say,  and  begone.' 

'Hot  youth!  Ah!  I  envy  that  fine  heat  of  the  blood. 
Once  I  was  just  the  same  myself.' 

He  must  have  been  a  good  deal  changed,  then,  since  that 
time. 

He  went  on.  'I  will  not  stay  long.  I  am  once  more  a 
peacemaker.  It  is  a  happy  office.  It  is  an  office  that  can  be 
discharged  on  the  Sabbath.  Sweetly  the  river  flows  beneath 
your  feet.  Ah!  A  peacemaker.  I  come  from  your  cousin 
again/ 

To  make  another  offer?' 

'Yes,  that  is  my  object.  I  am  again  prepared  to  offer 
you  terms  which,  I  believe,  no  one  else  in  the  world  would 
propose  to  you.  MT.  William,  I  will  give  you  the  sum  of 
four  thousand  pounds  down — equivalent  to  an  annual  income 
of  two  hundred  pounds  a  year  if  you  will  sell  your  rever- 
sion/ 

'No/ 

'Mr.  Matthew  can  use  the  money  to  advantage:  while  it 
lies  locked  up  it  is  of  no  use  to  anyone/ 

'No/ 


Out  of  the  Frying  Pan  Into  the  Fire    153 

'Such  obstinacy  was  never  known  before,  I  believe. 
Why,  Sir,  I  offer  you  an  annual  income  of  two  hundred 
pounds  a  year — two  hundred  pounds  a  year.  You  can 
leave  this  wretched  little  cottage  overhanging  a  marsh :  you 
can  move  into  a  fashionable  quarter,  and  live  like  a  person 
of  Quality:  you  can  abandon  your  present  mode  of  life, 
which  I  take  to  be  repellent  to  every  person  of  virtue — that 
of  musician  to  the  Dog  and  Duck  or  some  other  resort  of 
the  profligate.  Oh,  we  know  where  you  are  and  what  you 
do!  Instead  of  servant  you  will  be  master.  You,  Madam, 
will  no  longer  be  a  household  drudge :  you  will  have  your 
cook,  your  maids,  your  page  to  carry  your  Prayer-Book  to 
church.' 

'No.' 

He  hesitated  a  little,  the  sham  benevolence  dying  out  of 
his  face,  and  the  angry  look  of  baffled  cunning  taking  its 
place.  Mr.  Probus  was  a  bad  actor. 

He  took  out  a  parchment.  'Sign  it,  Mr.  William — here/ 
He  unrolled  it  and  indicated  the  place.  'Let  us  have  no 
more  shilly  shally,  willy  nilly  talk.  It  is  for  your  good  and 
for  my  client's.' 

'And  yours,  too,  Mr.  Probus.' 

'My  dear,'  said  Alice,  'do  not  exchange  words  any  longer. 
You  have  said  No  already.  It  is  my  husband's  last  word, 
Sir.' 

There  I  should  have  stopped.  It  is  always  foolish  to 
reveal  to1  an  enemy  what  one  has  discovered.  I  think  that 
up  to  that  moment  Mr.  Probus  was  only  anxious:  that  is 
to  say,  he  was  crazy  with  anxiety,  but  he  could  not  believe 
that  his  money  was  all  gone,  because  he  had  no  knowledge 
or  suspicion  in  what  way  it  had  gone.  Things  that  appear 
impossible  cannot  be  believed.  I  think  that  he  would  have 
assured  himself  of  the  fact  in  some  other  way  before  pro- 
ceeding to  the  wickedness  which  he  actually  had  in  his 
mind.  He  would  have  waited :  and  I  could  have  eluded  him 
some  way  or  other.  As  it  was,  the  mere  statement  of  Mat- 
thew drunk  drove  'him  half  mad  with  fear:  but  there  was 
still  the  chance  that  Matthew  sober  would  have  spoken  dif- 
ferently. 

'No,'  according  to  Alice,  was  my  last  word. 

'Not  quite  the  last  word,'  I  said.  'Hark  ye,  Mr.  Probus. 
The  sum  waiting  for  me  when  Matthew  dies,  is  one  hundred 
thousand  pounds  with  accumulations  of  interest,  is  it  not  2 


154  The  Orange  Girl 

If  he  were  to  die  to-morrow — to  be  sure  it  is  not  likely — but 
he  may  be  murdered,  or  he  may  put  himself  within  the 

power  of  the  Law  and  so  be  executed '  Mr.  Probus 

turned  ghastly  white  and  shook  all  over.  'Then  I  should 
come  in  for  the  whole  of  that  money,  which  is  much  better 
than  four  thousand  pounds,  whereas  if  I  were  to  die  to- 
morrow— either  by  the  operation  of  the  law  or  by  some 
other  manner,  Matthew  would  have  the  whole  and  you 
would  get  back  the  twenty-five  thousand  pounds  you  have 
lent  my  cousin  with  a  noble  addition.  If  you  do  get  it,  that 
is — Mr.  Probus,  I  think  that  you  will  not  get  it.  I  think 
you  will  never  get  any  more  of  your  money  back  at  all.' 

'I  don't  know,  Sir,  what  you  mean:  or  what  you  know, 
he  stammered. 

'I  know  more  than  you  think.  I  know  where  your  money 
has  gone.' 

'He  jumped  up.     'Where?    Where?    Where?    Tell  me/ 

'It  has  gone  into  the  bottomless  gulf  that  they  call  the 
gaming  table,  Mr.  Probus.  It  has  been  gambled  away :  the 
ships  of  my  father's  fleet:  the  cargoes:  the  accumulated 
treasures:  the  credit  of  the  business:  the  private  fortune 
of  my  cousin:  your  own  money  lent  to  Matthew:  it  has  all 
gone:  irrecoverably  gone ' 

'The  gaming  table !'  he  groaned.  'The  gaming  table !  I 
never  thought  of  that.  Sir,  do  you  know  what  you  mean — 
the  gaming  table  ?' 

No  one  but  a  money-lender  knows  all  that  may  be  meant 
by  the  gaming  table. 

'I  know  what  I  say.  Matthew  told  you  the  truth.  Every- 
thing has  gone:  ruin  stares  him  in  the  face Your 

money  is  gone  with  the  rest/ 

'The  gaming  table.  And  I  never  suspected  it The 

gaming  table!'  He  fell  into  a  kind  of  trance  or  fit,  with 
open  mouth,  white  cheeks,  and  fixed  eyes.  This  lasted  only 
for  a  few  moments. 

'Mr.  Probus/  I  went  on,  'I  cannot  say  that  I  am  sorry  for 
your  misfortunes ;  but  I  hope  we  shall  never  meet  again/ 

He  got  up,  slowly.  His  face  was  full  of  despair.  I  con- 
fess that  I  pitied  him.  For  'he  gave  way  altogether  to  a 
madness  oT  grief. 

'Gone?'  he  cried.  'No — no — no — not  gone — it  can't 
be  gone/  He  threw  'himself  into  a  chair  and  buried  his 
face  in  his  hands.  He  sobbed :  he  moaned :  .when  he  lifted 


Out  of  the  Frying  Pan  Into  the  Fire    155 

his  head  again  his  features  were  distorted.  'It  is  my  all/ 
he  cried.  'Oh!  you  don't  know  what  it  is  to  lose  your  all. 
I  can  never  get  any  more — I  am  old:  I  have  few  clients 
left — I  get  no  new  ones:  the  old  cannot  get  new  clients: 
my  character  is  not  what  it  was:  they  cry  out  after  me  in 
the  street:  they  say  I  lend  money  at  cent,  per  cent. — why 
not?  They  call  me  old  cent,  per  cent.  If  I  lose  this  money 
I  am  indeed  lost/ 

'We  cannot  help  you,  Mr.  Probus/ 

'Oh!  yes,  do  what  I  ask  you.  Sell  your  chance.  You 
will  never  outlive  your  cousin.  You  will  save  my  life. 
Think  of  saving  a  man's  life.  As  for  your  cousin,  let  him 
go  his  own  way.  I  hate  him.  It  is  you,  you,  Mr.  William, 
I  have  always  loved/ 

'No/ 

He  turned  to  Alice  and  fell  on  his  knees. 

'Persuade  him,  Madam.  You  are  all  goodness.  Oh! 
persuade  him — think  of  your  child.  You  can  make  him 
rich  with  a  stroke  of  a  pen — think  of  that.  Oh!  think  of 
that!'  The  tears  ran  down  his  cheeks. 

'Sir,  I  think  only  of  my  husband's  father.  And  of  his 
wishes,  which  are  commands/ 

'Enough  said' — there  was  too  much  said  already — 'your 
money  is  gone,  Mr.  Probus/ 

'Gone?'  he  repeated,  but  no  longer  in  terms  of  entreaty. 
He  was  now  fallen  into  the  other  extreme;  he  was  blind 
and  mad  with  rage  and  despair.  'No — no — it's  not  gone. 
I  will  get  it  out  of  you.  Those  who  threw  you  into  prison 
can  do  worse — worse.  You  have  brought  it  on  yourself. 

It  is  your  ruin  or  mine.  Once  more '  With  trembling 

fingers  he  held  out  the  paper  for  me  to  sign. 

'No/ 

He  stayed  no  longer:  he  threw  out  his  arms  again:  it 
was  as  if  his  breath  refused  to  come :  and  he  turned  away. 
He  looked  like  a  broken-down  man,  crawling,  bent,  with 
hanging  head,  along  the  road. 

As  soon  as  he  was  gone,  Ramage  opened  the  door  and 
came  out  cautiously. 

'Mr.  Will/  he  cried.  'For  Heaven's  sake,  sir.  For  your 
dear  lady's  sake:  for  the  child's  sake:  get  out  of  the  way. 
Nothing  else  will  serve.  He  is  desperate ;  and  he  is  as  cun- 
ning as  the  Devil  himself.  To  get  back  his  money  he  will 
shrink  from  nothing/ 


156  The  Orange  Girl 

'Indeed,  Ramage,'  I  said,  'I  think  you  are  right.  I  will 
take  a  holiday  for  awhile/ 

'When  the  bankruptcy  comes/  he  said,  'there  will  be  no 
more  danger,  because  all  the  money  would  be  divided  among 
the  creditors.  Better  to  run  away  than  to  be  ruined.' 

I  promised  to  think  of  flight.  Indeed,  my  mind  was 
shaken.  I  was  not  afraid  of  open  villainy,  but  of  that 
which  might  be  concealed  and  'designed  in  secret.  It  would 
perhaps  be  best  to  go  where  the  man  could  not  find  me. 

So  Ramage  departed.  When  he  saw  me  again,  it  was  in 
a  very  different  place. 

The  bell  of  Lambeth  Church  began  to  toll.  It  seemed 
to  me  like  a  funeral  knell,  though  it  was  the  bell  for  the 
afternoon  service.  The  wind  came  up  from  the  river  chilled 
with  the  November  air.  My  heart  sank. 

'My  dear,'  said  Alice,  'let  us  go  to  Church.  Oh!  the 
mark  of  the  Evil  Spirit  is  stamped  upon  the  unhappy  man's 
forehead.  Let  us  pray  not  for  ourselves,  but  for  God's 
mercy  upon  a  wandering  soul.' 

I  followed  her  as  she  led  the  way,  carrying  the  child. 
Alas !  How  long  before  I  could  sit  with  her  again  to  hear 
the  prayers  of  the  church  among  godly  folk ! 


CHAPTER  VII 
JENNY'S  ADVICE 

AFTER  this  plain  warning:  after  knowing  the  nature  of  the 
design  against  me :  after  the  savage  threats  of  the  man  Pro- 
bus:  I  ought  to  have  hesitated  no  longer:  I  should  have 
taken  Alice  and  the  child  to  her  brother  Tom,  and  should 
then  have  retired  somewhere  until  the  inevitable  bankruptcy 
relieved  me  from  fear  of  conspiracy.  Once  before,  I  had 
suffered  from  delay :  yet  had  I  not  learned  the  perils  of  pro- 
crastination. T  had  formed  in  my  mind  an  idea  that  they 
would  try  in  some  way  to  fix  upon  me  the  crime  of  forgery, 
and  I  thought  that  this  would  take  time:  so  that  I  was  not 
hurried:  I  confess  that  I  was  disquieted:  but  I  was  not 
hurried. 


Out  of  the  Frying  Pan  Into  the  Fire    157 

On  Monday  morning  I  repaired  to  Soho  Square  and  laid 
the  whole  business  before  Jenny. 

'Will,'  she  said,  after  hearing  all  and  asking  a  few  ques- 
tions, 'this  seems  a  very  serious  affair.  You  have  to  deal 
with  a  man  driven  frantic  by  the  loss  of  all  his  money :  the 
money  that  he  has  spent  his  life  in  scraping  together.  He 
throws  out  hints  about  your  possible  death  in  the  counting- 
house,  and  makes  a  bargain  in  case  you  die :  he  threatens 
you  with  some  mysterious  revenge.' 

'I  believe  he  will  trump  up  some  charge  of  forgery.' 

'He  is  quite  unscrupulous.  Now,  I  will  tell  you  some- 
thing. The  man  Merri dew's  perjury  about  your  alleged 
debt  put  me  on  the  scent.  Probus  works  through  Merridew. 
First  of  all  Merridew  owes  him  money — more  than  he  can 
pay.  This  'debt  goes  on  rolling  up.  This  puts  Merridew 
in  his  power.  What  Probus  orders  Merridew  must  do/ 

'Is  there  always  behind  every  villain  a  greater  villain  ?' 

'I  suppose  so.  The  greater  the  rogue  the  safer  he  is. 
Merridew  goes  to  the  shopkeepers  and  offers  to  return  them 
stolen  goods — at  a  price.  It  is  one  of  his  ways  of  making 
money.  Then  he  finds  out  their  necessities.  Most  shop- 
keepers are  always  in  want  of  money.  Then  Merridew 
takes  them  to  Probus  who  lends  them  money.  Oh !  at  first 
there  was  never  such  a  kin'd  friend — on  the  easiest  terms: 
they  can  pay  when  they  please :  then  they  want  a  little  more : 
and  so  they  go  on.  When  their  debt  has  risen  to  half  the 
value  of  their  stock,  Probus  wants  to  be  paid.  Then  he  sells 
them  up.  The  father  of  the  family  becomes  bankrupt  and 
goes  into  a  prison  for  the  rest  of  his  days :  what  becomes  of 
the  children  I  know  not — no  one  knows.  I  dare  say  some  of 
them  go  to  St.  Giles's/ 

This  is  what  Jenny  told  me.  I  know  not  if  it  is  true,  but 
•I  think  it  must  be. 

'Well,  you  see,  that  Probus  pulls  the  strings  and  sets 
Merridew's  arms  and  legs  at  work,  and  Merridew  has  all 
the  rogues  under  his  thumb.  Now  you  understand  why 
the  position  is  serious/ 

She  considered  for  a  few  minutes.  'Will/  she  said,  'for 
sure  they  will  talk  it  over  at  the  Black  Jack.  When  any- 
thing is  arranged  it  is  generally  done  in  the  kitchen  and  in 
the  morning/  She  looked  at  the  clock.  'It  is  now  nearly 
one.  If  I  were  to  go  round !'  She  considered  again,  'Doll 


158  The  Orange  Girl 

will  be  there.  They  may  be  there  too.  But  this  time  they 
must  not  recognise  me.  Wait  a  bit,  Will/ 

She  left  me  and  presently  came  back  dressed,  not  as  an 
Orange  Girl,  but  as  a  common  person,  such  as  one  may  see 
anywhere  in  St.  Gile's.  She  had  on  a  linsey  woolsey 
frock:  a  dirty  white  apron  all  in  holes:  a  kerchief  round 
her  neck:  another  over  her  head  tied  under  her  chin:  a 
straw  hat  also  tied  under  her  chin :  and  woollen  mittens  on 
her  hands.  One  cheek  was  smudged  as  by  a  coal,  and  her 
left  eye  was  blackened:  no  one  would  have  recognised  her. 
On  her  arm  she  carried  a  basket  carefully  covered  up. 

'Now/  she  said,  Tm  a  woman  with  a  basket  full  of  stolen 
goods  for  Mother  Wilmot/ 

I  let  her  out  by  the  garden-door  which  opened  on  to  Hog's 
Lane.  Presently  she  returned :  from  what  she  told  me,  this 
was  what  passed. 

She  found  her  mother  nodding  over  knitting,  and  her  sis- 
ter Doll  busy  with  the  slate.  The  kitchen  was  well-nigfa 
empty  because  most  of  the  frequenters  were  abroad  picking 
up  their  living.  Like  the  sparrows  they  pick  it  up  as  they 
can  from  pockets  and  doorways  and  from  shop  bulks. 

'Doll/  she  whispered.  'Pretend  not  to  know  me.  Turn 
over  the  things  in  the  basket/ 

'What  is  it,  Jenny?' 

She  looked  round  the  room.  There  were  only  two  or 
three  sitting  by  the  fire.  'No  one  who  knows  me/  she  said. 
'Tell  me,  Doll.  Has  Mr.  Merridew  'been  here — and  when  ?' 

'Why,  he's  only  just  gone.  Him  and  the  Bishop — and 
the  Captain — and  another  one — a  gentleman  he  looked  like. 
All  in  black/ 

'All  in  black?     Was  he  tall  an'd  thin  and  stooping?     So?* 

'Yes.     They've  been  talking  over  it  all  the  morning/ 

'What  is  it,  Doll?  You've  got  ears  like  gimlets.  I 
sometimes  think  it  must  be  pleasant  to  be  able  to  hear  so 
much  that  goes  on/ 

'I  can  hear  a  thing  if  I  like.  The  Bishop  don't  like  it, 
Jenny/  She  dropped  her  voice.  'It's  business  for  getting 
a  man  out  of  the  way.  They'll  'have  to  give  evidence  at 
the  Old  Bailey,  and  he's  afraid/ 

'How  is  the  man  to  be  put  out  of  the  way?1 

'I  don't  know.     There's  money  on  it.     But  they're  afraid/ 

'Why  are  they  afraid?' 


Out  of  the  Frying  Pan  Into  the  Fire    159 

'Because  they're  going  to  make  a  man  swing.  If  he 
doesn't  swing,  they  will.' 

'I  suppose  it's  an  innocent  man,  Doll/ 

'How  should  I  know?  It  isn't  one  of  themselves.  If 
the  case  breaks  down  they'll  have  to  swing.  Mr.  Merridew 
promised  them  so  much,  for  I  heard  him.  He  means  it, 
too — and  they  know  it.  I  heard  him.  "If  you  Jdo  break 
down,"  he  says,  "after  all,  you  will  be  no  worse  off  than 
you  are  at  present.  For  your  time's  up  and  you  know  it, 
both  of  you.  So,  if  you  break  down,  you  will  be  arrested 
for  conspiracy  and  detained  on  my  information  on  a  capital 

charge."  After  which — he  made  so '  with  her  finger  on 

her  neck. 

'Well,  what  did  they  say,  Doll?' 

'The  Bishop  said  it  would  be  easier  and  quicker  to  knock 
him  on  the  head  at  once.  Mr.  Merridew  wouldn't  hear  of 
it.  He  said  if  they  obeyed  him  they  should  have  two  years' 
more  rope.  If  not,  they  knew  what  to  expect.  So  they 
went  away  with  him,  looking  mighty  uneasy/ 

'When  is  it  to  be,  Doll?' 

'Lord,  sister,  you  are  mighty  curious.  'Tis  no  affair  of 
yours.  Best  know  nothing,  I  say.  Only  a  body  must  hear 
things.  And  it  makes  the  time  pass  knowing  what  to  ex- 
pect/ 

'Can  you  find  out  when  it  is  to  be?' 

'If  I  learn,  I  will  tell  you.  It's  all  settled,  I  know  that. 
We  shall  have  the  pair  of  them  giving  evidence  in  the  Old 
Bailey/  Doll  laughed  at  the  thought.  'All  St.  Giles  will 
go  to  the  Court  to  hear — all  them  that  dare/ 

'So  they  went  away  with  Mr.  Merridew/  Jenny  repeated, 
thoughtfully. 

'Yes,  after  a  mug  of  purl,  but  the  Bishop  went  away  shak- 
ing/ Not  on  account  of  the  crime,  I  suppose,  but  with  the 
thought  of  being  cross-examined  in  the  Old  Bailey,  and  the 
terror  that  he  might  be  recognised.  But  the  only  London 
Prison  that  knew  him  was  the  King's  Bench/ 

Jenny  took  up  her  basket  and  went  away.  Just  outside 
the  door  she  met  a  young  country  fellow:  he  had  come  up 
from  some  village  in  consequence  of  trouble  concerned  with 
a  girl :  Jenny  had  had  speech  with  him  already,  as  you  have 
heard,  at  the  Black  Jack. 

'Jack/  she  said,  'you  don't  remember  me:  I  was  at  the 


160  The  Orange  Girl 

Black  Jack  some  time  ago  in  the  evening.  They  called  me 
Madam.  Now  you  remember/ 

'Ay '  he  said,  looking  at  her  curiously.  'But  I 

shouldn't  know  you  again.  Yon  are  dressed  different/ 

'Jack,  why  don't  you  go  home?' 

'A  man  must  live,'  he  replied. 

'You'll  be  hanged.  For  sure  and  certain,  one  of  these 
days,  you'll  be  hanged.  Now,  Jack,  I'll  give  you  a  chance. 
Let  us  sit  here  by  the  rails,  and  talk — then  people  won't 
suspect.  You've  seen  Mr.  Merridew  to-day.  I  thought 
so.  He  told  you  that  he  might  want  you  on  some  serious 
job.  I  thought  so.  Your  looks  are  still  innocent,  Jack. 
Now  tell  me  all  about  it — and  I'll  give  you  money  to  take  you 
home  again  out  of  the  way  and  safe.' 

Jack  had  very  little  to  tell.  He  had  been  in  the  kitchen 
that  morning.  Mr.  Merridew  called  him — bade  him  not 
to  go  away:  said  that  he  should  want  him  perhaps  for  a 
good  job:  so  he  waited.  Then  a  gentleman  came  in:  he 
was  in  black — a  long,  and  lean  figure.  Jack  would  know 
him  again;  and  they  all  four — but  not  Jack — talked  very 
earnestly  together.  Then  the  gentleman  went  away  and 
presently  Mr.  Merridew  also  went  away,  with  the  Bishop 
and  the  Captain. 

'Very  good,  Jack.  I  will  see  you  to-morrow  morning 
again — just  in  the  same  place.  Don't  forget.  If  anything 
else  occurs  you  will  tell  me.  Poor  Jack !  I  should  be  sorry 
to  see  so  proper  a  fellow  hanged,'  so  she  nodded  and  laughed 
and  pressed  his  hand  and  left  him. 

She  came  home:  she  joined  me  again.  There  was  some- 
thing hatching;  that  was  certain. 

'Perhaps,'  she  said,  'the  plot  is  not  directed  against  you. 
Merridew  is  always  finding  out  where  a  house  can  be  broken 
or  a  bale  of  stuff  stolen.' 

Then  what  did  Probus  want  there?' 

'The  long,  lean  man  in  black  was  not  Probus,  perhaps/ 

She  considered  again. 

'After  all,  Will,  I  think  the  best  thing  is  for  you  to  dis- 
appear. They  are  desperate  villains.  Get  out  of  their  way. 
Your  friend  Ramage  gave  you  the  best  advice  possible.  If 
all  he  says  is  true,  Matthew  cannot  hold  out  much  longer. 
Once  he  is  bankrupt,  your  death  will  no  longer  help  Pro- 
bus.  Where  could  you  go?' 

I  told  her  that  I  thought  of  Dublin,  where  I  might  get 


Out  of  the  Frying  Pan  Into  the  Fire    161 

into  the  orchestra  of  the  theatre.  So  after  a  little  discus- 
sion, it  was  settled.  Jenny,  always  generous*  undertook  to 
provide  for  Alice  in  my  absence,  and  gave  me  a  sum  of 
money  for  present  necessities. 

I  stayed  there  all  day.  In  the  evening  I  played  at  a  con- 
cert in  the  Assembly  Room.  After  the  concert  I  took  sup- 
per with  Jenny. 

During  supper  Jenny  entertained  me  with  a  fuller  de- 
scription of  the  wretches  from  whose  hands  she  was  trying 
to  rescue  me.  There  was  no  turn  or  trick  of  villainy  that 
Jenny  did  not  know.  She  made  no  excuses  for  knowing 
so  much — it  was  part  of  her  education  to  hear  continually 
talk  of  these  things.  They  make  up  disguises  in  which  it 
is  impossible  to  recognise  them:  they  arrange  that  respect- 
able people  shall  swear  to  their  having  been  miles  away  at 
the  time  of  the  crime:  they  practise  on  the  ignorance  of 
some :  on  the  cunning  of  others.  They  prey  upon  mankind. 
And  all  the  time,  behind  every  villain  stands  a  greater  vil- 
lain. Behind  the  humble  footpad  stands  the  Captain:  be- 
hind the  Captain  stands  the  thief-taker:  behind  the  thief- 
,  taker  stands  the  money-lender  himself  unseen.  It  would 
surely  be  to  the  advantage  of  the  Law  could  it  tackle  the 
greater  villains  first.  A  cart-load  of  gentlemen  like  Mr. 
Probus  on  its  way  to  Tyburn  would  perhaps  be  more  useful 
than  many  cartloads  of  poor  pickpockets  and  hedge-lifters. 
Sometimes,  however,  as  this  history  will  relate,  Justice  with 
tardy  step  overtakes  a  Probus,  and  that  with  punishment 
so  dreadful  that  he  is  left  incapable  of  any  further  wicked- 
ness. 

'Now/  she  said,  'when  Probus  wants  money,  he  squeezes 
Merridew.  Then  he  lays  information  against  some  poor 
wretch  who  expected  a  longer  rope.  In  order  to  get  at  these 
wretches  he  has  to  encourage  them  to  break  the  law.  So 
you  see,  if  he  has  to  make  a  payment  to  Probus,  he  must 
manufacture  criminals.  As  I  said,  there  cannot  be  many 
things  worse  than  the  making  of  criminals  for  the  satis- 
faction of  the  money-lender/ 

I  hardly  understood,  at  the  time,  the  full  villainy  of  this 
system.  In  fact,  I  was  wholly  absorbed  in  my  own  particu- 
lar case.  What  was  going  to  be  done  ? 

About  midnight  I  bade  this  kindest  of  women  farewell. 

'Remember,  Will/  she  said,  'trust  nothing  to  chance. 
Take  boat  down  the  river  before  daybreak.  There  is  sure 


1 62  The  Orange  Girl 

to  be  a  Holyhead  coach  somewhere  in  the  morning.     In  a 
month  or  two  you  can  come  'back  again  in  safety/ 

Yes — I  was  to  come  back  in  safety  in  that  time,  but  not 
as  Jenny  meant.  I  shouldered  my  trusty  club  and  marched 
off. 


CHAPTER  VIII 

A   SUCCESSFUL   CONSPIRACY 

MY  WAY  home  lay  through  Dean  Street  as  far  as  St.  Ann's 
Church :  then  I  passed  across  Leicester  Fields :  and  through 
Green  Street  at  the  south-east  angle  of  the  Fields  into  St. 
Martin's  Lane.  All  this  part  of  the  way  is  greatly  infested 
at  nigfat  by  lurking  footpads  from  the  choice  purlieus  of 
Seven  Dials  and  Soho.  Of  footpads,  however,  I  had  very 
little  fear:  they  are  at  best  a  cowardly  crew,  even  two  or 
three  together,  and  a  man  with  a  stout  cudgel  and  some  skill 
at  a  quarter-staff  or  single-stick  need  not  be  afraid  of  them : 
generally,  two  or  three  passengers  will  join  together  in  order 
to  get  across  the  Fields  which  are  especially  the  dangerous 
part:  on  many  nights  it  was  so  late  when  I  left  the  Square 
that  even  footpads,  highwaymen,  pickpockets  and  all  were 
fairly  home  and  in  bed  before  I  walked  through  the  streets. 

This  evening  by  bad  luck,  I  was  alone.  I  found  no  other 
passengers  going  my  way.  But  I  had  no  fear.  I  poised 
my  cudgel  and  set  out,  expecting  perhaps  an  encounter  with 
a  footpad,  but  nothing  worse.  And  it  was  not  yet  late,  as 
hours  go,  in  London :  there  were  still  people  in  the  streets. 

What  had  happened  was  this.  As  soon  as  Probus  learned 
the  truth  about  the  gaming-table — a  fatal  thing  it  was  to 
disclose  my  knowledge — 'he  understood  two  things:  first, 
that  his  money  was  irrevocably  gone:  and  second,  that  if  I 
revealed  the  truth  to  the  Alderman  in  'his  suburban  retreat, 
he  must  needs  investigate  the  position  of  things  in  which 
case  Bankruptcy  would  be  precipitated.  After  that,  whether 
I  died  or  signed  the  agreement,  or  refused  to  sign  it  would 
matter  nothing  to  him.  Whereas,  on  the  other  hand,  if  my 
signature  could  be  obtained  before  the  bankruptcy,  then 
money  could  be  raised  upon  the  succession:  and  if  I  were 
to  die,  then  the  whole  of  the  money  would  be  paid  on  the 


Out  of  the  Frying  Pan  Into  the  Fire    163 

day  of  my  death  to  Matthew.     Whatever  was  done  must 
therefore  be  done  as  soon  as  possible. 

Therefore,  he  resolved  that  the  plot  should  be  carried  into 
execution  on  the  very  Monday  evening.  He  caused  the 
cottage  to  be  watched  by  one  of  the  girls  w/ho  frequented 
the  Black  Jack :  she  followed  me  all  the  way  from  Lambeth 
to  Soho  Square:  and  she  carried  intelligence  where  to  find 
me  to  the  tavern,  where  Probus  himself  with  Merridew,  the 
Bishop,  and  the  Captain,  was  now  waiting. 

They  understood  that  I  was  playing  at  a  concert:  they 
therefore  sallied  out  about  the  time  when  the  concert  would 
be  finishing  and  waited  for  me  in  the  Square:  at  eleven 
o'clock  I  sallied  forth:  I  walked  down  Dean  Street:  they 
ran  down  Greek  Street  to  meet  me  at  the  other  end,  where 
there  are  fewer  people:  but  (I  heard  this  afterwards) 
changed  their  minds  and  got  over  the  Fields  into  Green 
Street  behind  the  Mews,  where  they  resolved  to  wait  for 
me.  The  Bishop  posted  himself  on  one  side:  the  Captain 
on  the  other:  Mr.  Probus  and  Mr.  Merridew  waited  a  little 
further  down  the  street.  It  was  a  dangerous  plot  that 
they  were  going  to  attempt :  I  am  not  surprised  that  neither 
the  Bis'hop  nor  the  Captain  had  much  stomach  for  the  play. 
At  this  place,  which  has  as  bad  a  reputation  as  any  part  of 
London,  there  are  seldom  any  passengers  after  night- fall; 
after  midnight,  "none.  It  is  dark :  the  houses  are  inhabited 
by  criminal  and  disorderly  people — but  all  this  is  well  known 
to  everybody. 

I  walked  briskly  along,  anticipating  no  danger  of  this 
kind.  Suddenly,  I  heard  footsteps  in  front  of  me  and  be- 
hind me :  there  was  a  movement  in  the  quiet  street ;  by  such 
light  as  the  stars  gave,  I  saw  before  me  the  rascally  face  of 
the  Bishop :  I  lifted  my  cudgel :  I  half  turned : — crash ! — I 
remember  nothing  more. 

When  I  came  to  my  senses,  or  to  some  part  of  my  senses, 
I  found  myself  lying  on  a  sanded  floor :  my  head  was  filled 
with  a  dull  and  heavy  pain:  my  eyes  were  dazed:  to  open 
them  brought  on  an  agony  of  pain.  For  awhile  the  voices 
I  heard  were  like  the  buzzing  of  bees. 

I  grew  better:  I  was  able  to  distinguish  a  little:  but  I 
could  not  yet  open  my  eyes. 

The  first  voice  that  I  recognized  was  that  of  Mr.  Probus. 
— the  rasping,  'harsh,  terrifying  voice — who  could  mistake 
it? 


164  The  Orange  Girl 

'A  bad  case,  gentlemen/  he  was  saying,  'a  very  bad  case: 
it  was  fortunate  that  I  was  passing  on  my  way,  if  only  to 
identify  the  prisoner.  Dear  me!  I  knew  his  honoured 
father,  gentlemen;  I  was  his  father's  unworthy  attorney. 
His  father  was  none  other  than  Sir  Peter  Halliday.  The 
young  man  was  turned  out  of  the  house  for  misconduct.  A 
bad  case — Who  would  have  thought  that  Sir  Peter's  son 
would  die  at  Tyburn?' 

Then  there  was  another  voice:  rich  and  rolling,  like  a 
low  stop  of  the  organ — I  knew  that  too.  It  was  the  voice 
of  the  Bishop. 

'My  name,  Mr.  Constable,  is  Carstairs ;  Samuel  Carstairs ; 
the  Rev.  Samuel  Carstairs,  Doctor  of  Divinity,  Sanctse  Theo- 
logise  Professor,  sometime  of  Trinity  College,  Dublin.  I 
am  an  Irish  clergyman,  at  present  without  cure  of  souls.  I 
was  walking  home  after  certain  godly  exercises' —  in  the 
Black  Jack — I  suppose — 'when  this  fellow  ran  out  in  front 
of  me,  crying  "Your  money  or  your  life."  I  am  not  a  fight- 
ing man,  Sir,  but  a  servant  of  the  Lord.  I  gave  him  my 
purse,  entreating  him  to  spare  my  life.  As  he  took  it,  some 
other  gentleman,  unknown  to  me,  ran  to  my  assistance,  and 
knocked  the  villain  down.  Perhaps,  Mr.  Constable,  you 
would  direct  his  pockets  to  be  searched.  The  purse  con- 
tained seventeen  guineas.' 

I  felt  hands  in  my  pocket.     Something  was  taken  out. 

'Ha!'  cried  the  Doctor.     'Let  the  money  be  counted/ 

I  heard  the  click  of  coin  and  another  voice  cried  'Seven- 
teen guineas.' 

'Well/  said  Mr.  Probus,  'there  cannot  be  much  doubt  after 
that/ 

'I  rejoice/  said  the  Doctor,  'not  so  much  that  the  money 
is  found — though  I  assure  you,  worthy  Sir,  I  could  ill  afford 
the  loss — as  because  it  clearly  proves  'the  truth  of  my  evi- 
dence— if,  that  is  to  say,  there  could  be  any  question  as  to 
its  truth,  or  anyone  with  the  hardihood  to  doubt  it/ 

At  this  point,  I  was  able  to  open  my  eyes.  The  place  I 
knew  for  a  Round  House.  The  Constable  in  charge  sat  at  a 
table,  a  book  before  'him,  entering  the  case:  Mr.  Probus 
stood  beside  him,  shaking  'his  virtuous  head  with  sorrow. 
The  Doctor  was  holding  up  his  hands  to  express  a  good 
clergyman's  horror  of  the  crime :  Mr.  Merridew  was  stand- 
ing on  the  other  side  of  the  Constable,  and  beside  him  the' 
Captain,  who  now  stepped  forward  briskly. 


Out  of  the  Frying  Pan  Into  the  Fire    165 

;  'My  name/  he  said,  'is  Ferdinando  Fenwick.  I  am  a 
country  man  from  Cumberland.  I  was  walking  with  this 
gentleman' — he  indicated  Mr.  Merridew.  'We  were  walk- 
ing together  for  purposes  of  mutual  protection,  for  I  have 
been  warned  against  this  part  of  London,  when  I  saw  the 
action  described  by  this  pious  clergyman.  The  man  ran 
forward  raising  his  cudgel.  I  have  brought  it  with  me — 
You  can  see,  Sir,  that  it  is  a  murderous  weapon.  I  saw  the 
gentleman  here,  whose  name  I  did  not  catch ' 

'Carstairs — By  your  leave,  Sir — Samuel  Carstairs — The 
Rev.  Samuel  Carstairs — Doctor  of  Divinity — Sanctse  Theo- 
logize Professor/ 

'Thank  you,  Sir.  I  saw  him  hand  over  his  purse.  The 
villain  raised  his  cudgel  again.  I  verily  believe  he  intended 
to  murder  as  well  as  to  rob  his  victim.  I  therefore  ran  to 
the  rescue  and  with  a  blow  of  my  stick  felled  the  ruffian/ 

The  Constable  looked  doubtfully  at  Mr.  Merridew,  whom 
he  knew  by  sight,  as  everybody  connected  with  the  criminal 
part  of  the  law  certainly  did :  he  knew  him  as  Sheriff's  offi- 
cer, nominally :  thief-taker  by  secret  profession :  thief-maker, 
as  matter  of  notoriety  at  the  Courts.  From  him  he  looked 
at  Mr.  Probus,  but  more  doubtfully,  because  'he  knew  noth- 
ing about  him  except  that  he  was  an  attorney,  which  means 
to  such  people  as  the  Constable,  devil  incarnate.  He  also 
looked  doubtfully  at  the  Captain,  whose  face,  perhaps,  he 
knew.  Considering  that  the  Captain  had  been  living  for 
eight  years  at  least  in  and  about  St.  Giles's,  and  robbing 
about  all  the  roads  that  run  out  of  London,  perhaps  the  Con- 
stable did  know  him  by  sight. 

'Well,'  he  said,  'I  suppose  Sir  John  will  look  into  it  to- 
morrow. As  for  this  gentleman  who  says  'he  is I  re- 
member  ' 

Here  Mr.  Probus  slipped  something  into  his  hand. 

'It  is  not  for  me/  the  worthy  Constable  added,  'to  remem- 
ber anything.  Besides,  I  may  be  wrong.  Well,  gentlemen, 
you  will  all  attend  to-morrow  morning  at  Bow  Street  and 
give  your  evidence  before  Sir  John  Fielding/ 

So  they  went  away  and  I  lay  on  the  floor  still  wondering 
stupidly  what  would  happen  next. 

Just  then  two  watchmen  came  in.  One  was  leading,  or 
dragging,  or  carrying  a  young  gentleman  richly  dressed 
but  so  drunk  that  he  could  neither  stand  nor  speak:  the 
other  brought  with  him  a  poor  creature — a  woman — young 


1 66  The  Orange  Girl 

— only  a  girl  still — dressed  in  rags  and  tatters;  shivering: 
unwashed;  uncombed;  weak  and  emaciated:  a  deplorable 
object. 

The  Constable  turned  to  the  first  case. 

'Give  the  gentleman  a  chair/  <he  said.  Tut  him  before 
the  fire.  Reach  me  his  watch  and  his  purse.  Search  his 
pockets,  watchman/ 

'Please  your  honour/  said  the  watchman,  'I  have  searched 
his  pockets.  We  came  too  late,  Sir.  Nothing  in  them/ 

'The  town  is  full  of  villains — full  of  villains/  said  the  offi- 
cer, with  honest  indignation.  'Well,  put  him  in  the  chair. 
A  gentleman  can  send  for  guineas  if  he  hasn't  got  any 
guineas.  Did  he  assault  you,  watchman?  I  thought  so — 
Well — Let  him  sleep  it  off.  Who's  this  woman  ?' 

The  watchman  deposed  to  finding  her  walking  about  the 
deserted  streets  because  she  had  nowhere  to  go. 

'Has  she  got  any  money?  Then  just  put  her  in  the 
strong  room — and  carry  this  poor  devil  in  after  her.  If 
that  story  holds — well — lay  him  on  the  bench — and  take  care 
of  his  head/ 

They  pushed  the  girl  into  the  strong-room:  carried  me 
after  her :  laid  me  down  on  a  wide  stone  bench  without  any 
kind  of  pillow  or  covering.  Then  they  went  out  locking 
the  door  behind  them. 

I  suppose  that  I  should  have  suffered  more  than  I  did 
had  it  not  been  for  the  stupefying  effect  of  the  blow  upon 
my  head.  I  have  only  a  dim  recollection  of  the  night.  The 
place  was  filled  with  poor  wretches,  men  and  women,  who 
could  not  afford  to  bribe  the  Constable.  In  this  land  of 
freedom  to  be  a  poor  rogue  is  hanging  matter :  to  be  a  rogue 
with  money  in  pocket  and  purse  is  quite  another  thing: 
that  rogue  goes  free.  The  rogue  runs  the  gauntlet:  first, 
he  may  get  off  by  bribing  the  watchman :  if  he  fails  to  do 
that,  he  may  bribe  the  constable:  or  if  the  worst 
happens,  he  may  then  bribe  the  magistrate.  I  un- 
derstand, however,  that  this  has  been  changed,  and 
that  there  are  now  no  Justices  who  take  bribes. 
Now,  if  the  watchman  brings  few  cases  to  the  con- 
stable, and  those  all  poor  rogues,  he  may  lose  his  place :  and 
if  the  constable  pockets  all  the  bribes  and  brings  the  magis- 
trate none,  he  may  lose  his  place.  So  that  it  is  mutually 
agreed  between  the  three  that  each  is  to  have  his  share.  All 
mankind  are  for  ever  seeking  and  praying  for  Justice,  and 


Out  of  the  Frying  Pan  Into  the  Fire    167 

behold,  this  is  all  we  have  got  in  the  boasted  eighteenth  cen-' 
tury.  I  suppose,  however,  that  in  such  a  case  as  mine,  a 
charge  of  highway  robbery,  in  which  the  prisoner  was  taken 
red-handed,  no  constable  would  dare  to  take  a  bribe. 

From  time  to  time  in  the  night  we  were  disturbed  by 
the  grating  of  the  key  in  the  lock  as  the  door  was  opened 
for  the  admission  of  another  poor  wretch.  Then  these  in- 
terruptions ceased,  and  we  were  left  in  quiet. 

When  the  day  broke  through  the  bars  of  the  only  win- 
dow, I  could  look  round  upon  the  people,  my  companions  in 
misfortune.  There  were  three  or  four  women  in  tawdry 
finery — very  poor  and  miserable  creatures  who  would  be 
happier  in  the  worst  prison  than  in  the  way  they  lived :  two 
or  three  pickpockets  and  footpads:  one  or  two  prentices, 
who  would  be  sent  to  Bridewell  and  flogged  for  being  found 
drunk.  There  was  very  little  talk.  Mostly,  the  wretches 
sat  in  gloomy  silence.  They  had  not  even  the  curiosity  to 
ask  each  other  as  to  the  offenses  with  which  they  were 
charged. 

As  the  light  increased  the  women  began  to  whisper.  They 
exhorted  each  other  to  courage.  Before  them  all,  in  imagi- 
nation, stood  the  dreadful  whipping-post  of  Bridewell.  Some 
of  them  have  had  an  experience  of  that  punishment. 

'It  takes  but  two  or  three  minutes/  they  said.  'Then  it 
soon  passes  off.  Mind  you  screech  as  if  they  were  murder- 
ing you.  That  frightens  the  Alderman,  and  brings  down  the 
knocker.  Don't  begin  to  fret  about  it.'  They  were  talking 
about  their  whippings  in  Bridewell.  'Perhaps  Sir  John  will 
let  you  go.  Sometimes  he  does/  My  head  pained,  and  I 
closed  my  eyes  again. 

At  about  eight  o'clock  the  doors  were  flung  wide  open. 
Everyone  started,  shuddered,  and  stood  up.  'Now,  then,' 
cried  a  harsh  voice,  'out  with  you !  Out,  I  say.' 

I  was  still  giddy  with  last  night's  blow:  my  hair  was 
stiff  with  blood :  my  head  ached,  but  I  was  able  to  walk  out 
with  the  others.  The  constables  arranged  us  in  a  kind  of 
procession,  and  put  the  handcuffs  on  every  one.  Then  we 
were  marched  through  the  streets  two  by  two,  guarded  by 
constables,  to  Bow  Street  Office,  the  Magistrate  of  which  was 
then  Sir  John  Fielding. 

'There  was  some  slight  comfort  in  the  thought  that  he 
was  'blind: 'he  could  not  be  prejudiced  against  me  by  my  ap- 
pearance, for  my  face  was  smeared  with  blood :  my  hair  was 


1 68  The  Orange  Girl 

stiff  with  blood.  There  was  blood  on  -my  coat,  and  where 
there  was  not  blood  there  was  the  mud  of  the  street  in 
which  I  had  lain  senseless. 

The  business  of  the  Court  was  proceeding.  The  Magis- 
trate sat  at  a  table:  his  eyes  were  bandaged.  The  eyes  of 
Justice  should  be  always  bandaged.  Over  his  head  on  the 
wall  hung  the  Lion  and  the  Unicorn :  the  prisoners  were 
placed  in  a  railed  space:  the  witnesses  in  another,  those  in 
my  case,  I  observed,  were  in  readiness  and  waiting :  three  or 
four  Bow  Street  runners  were  standing  in  the  Court:  there 
was  a  dock  for  the  prisoner  facing  the  magistrate. 

The  cases  took  little  time.  There  is  a  dreadful  sameness 
about  the  charges.  The  women  were  despatched  summarily 
and  sent  off  to  Bridewell :  they  received  their  sentences 
with  cries  and  lamentations,  which  stopped  quickly  enough 
when  they  found  that  they  could  not  move  the  magistrate : 
the  pickpockets  were  ordered  to  be  whipped:  the  other 
rogues  were  committed  to  prison.  They  were  destined,  for 
the  most  part,  to  transportation  beyond  the  seas.  It  is  use- 
ful for  the  country  to  get  rid  of  its  rogues:  it  seems  also 
humane  to  send  them  to  a  country  where  they  may  lead  an 
honest  life.  Alas !  the  humanity  of  the  law  is  marred  by  the 
execution  of  the  sentence,  for  though  the  voyage  does  not 
last  more  than  six  or  eight  weeks,  the  gaol  fever  taken  on 
board  the  ship;  the  sea  sickness;  the  stench;  the  dirt;  the 
foul  air  of  the  ship,  commonly  kill  at  least  a  third  of  the 
poor  creatures  thus  sent  out.  As  for  those  who  are  left, 
many  of  them  run  away  from  their  masters :  make  their  way 
to  a  port,  get  on  board  a  ship,  and  are  carried  back  to  Lon- 
don, where  they  are  fain  to  go  back  to  their  old  companions 
and  resume  their  old  habits,  and  get  known  to  Mr.  Merridew 
and  his  friends,  and  so  at  last  find  themselves  in  the  con- 
demned cells. 

My  case  came  on,  at  last.  I  was  placed  in  the  dock  facing 
the  magistrate.  The  clerk  read  to  hi<m  the  notes  of  the  case 
provided  by  the  chief  constable. 

'Your  name,  prisoner  ?'  he  asked. 

'I  am  William  Halliday,'  I  said,  'only  son  of  the  late  Sir 
Peter  Halliday,  formerly  Lord  Mayor  of  London.  I  am 
a  musician  now  in  the  employment  of  Madam  Vallance, 
Proprietor  of  the  Assembly  Rooms  in  Soho  Square/ 

The  Magistrate  whispered  to  his  clerk. 

Then  the  evidence  was  given.     One  after  the  other  they 


Out  of  the  Frying  Pan  Into  the  Fire    169 

manfully  stood  up :  kissed  the  book :  and  committed  perjury. 
Sir  John  Fielding  asked  the  Doctor  several  questions.  He 
was  evidently  doubtful:  his  clerk  whispered  again:  he 
pressed  the  doctor  as  to  alleged  profession  and  position. 
However,  the  man  stuck  to  his  tale.  The  fact  that  the  purse 
was  found  in  my  pocket  was  very  strong.  Then  the  Cap- 
tain told  his  story. 

Mr.  Merridew  did  not  attempt  any  disguise :  he  was  too 
well  known  in  Court :  he  stated  that  he  was  a  Sheriff's  officer 
— named  Merridew — everybody  in  the  court  gazed  upon  him 
with  the  greatest  curiosity,  the  women  whispering  and  look- 
ing from  him  to  me.  'Who  is  he?'  they  asked  each  other. 
'What  has  he  done?  Do  you  know  him — do  you?'  The 
surprise  at  the  appearance  of  a  stranger  in  the  dock  charged 
on  the  evidence  of  the  worthy  sheriff's  officer  caused  general 
surprise.  However,  Mr.  Merridew  took  no  notice  of  the 
whispering.  He  was  apparently  callous :  he  took  it  perhaps 
as  proof  of  popularity  and  admiration :  he  gave  his  evidence 
in  the  manner  of  one  accustomed  to  bear  witness,  as  indeed 
he  was,  having  perhaps  given  evidence  oftener  than  any 
other  living  man.  He  stated  that  he  had  joined  a  stranger 
to  walk  from  the  Tottenham  Court  Road  to  Charing  Cross, 
each  carrying  a  cudgel  for  self-defence:  that  he  observed 
the  action  described  by  the  worthy  and  learned  Doctor  of 
Divinity  from  Ireland:  that  his  companion,  this  gallant 
young  gentleman,  rushed  out  to  the  rescue  of  the  clergyman, 
and  so  forth.  So  he  retired  with  a  front  of  iron. 

Mr.  Probus  added  to  the  evidence  which  you  have  already 
heard  the  statement  that  he  came  accidentally  upon  the  party 
and  after  the  business  was  over:  that  he  happened  to  have 
been  attorney  to  the  late  Sir  Peter  Halliday :  that  he  recog- 
nized the  robber  as  the  unnatural  son  of  that  good  man, 
turned  out  of  his  father's  -home  for  his  many  crimes  and 
vices:  and  that  in  the  interest  of  justice  ancl  respect  for  the 
laws  of  his  country  he  went  out  of  his  way,  and  was  at  great 
personal  loss  and  inconvenience  in  order  to  give  this  evi- 
dence. 

The  Magistrate  put  no  questions  to  him.  He  turned  to 
me  and  asked  if  I  had  anything  to  say  or  any  evidence  to 
offer. 

I  had  none,  except — that  I  was  no  highwayman,  but  a 
respectable  musician,  and  that  this  was  a  conspiracy. 

'You  will  have  the  opportunity/  said  Sir  John,  'of  proving 


170  The  Orange  Girl 

the  fact.  Meantime,  in  the  face  of  this  evidence,  conspiracy 
or  not,  I  have  no  choice  but  to  commit  you  to  Newgate,  there 
to  remain  until  your  trial/ 

They  set  me  aside  and  the  next  case  was  called. 

So  you  understand,  there  are  other  ways  of  compassing  a 
man's  death  besides  simple  murder.  It  is  sufficient  to  enter 
into  a  conspiracy  and  to  charge  him  with  an  offence  which, 
by  the  laws  of  the  country,  is  punishable  by  death. 


CHAPTER  IX 

NEWGATE 

A  MAN  must  be  made  of  brass  or  wrought-iron  who  can 
enter  the  gloomy  portals  of  Newgate  as  a  prisoner  without 
a  trembling  of  the  limbs  and  a  sinking  of  the  heart.  Not 
even  consciousness  of  innocence  is  sufficient  to  sustain  a 
prisoner,  for  alas!  even  the  innocent  are  sometimes  found 
guilty.  Once  within  the  first  doors  I  was  fain  to  lay  hold 
upon  the  nearest  turnkey  or  I  should  have  fallen  into  a 
swoon;  a  thing  which,  they  tell  me,  happens  with  many, 
for  the  first  entrance  into  prison  is  worse  to  the  imagination 
even  than  the  standing  up  in  the  dock  to  take  one's  trial  in 
open  court.  There  is,  in  the  external  aspect  of  the  prison : 
in  the  gloom  which  hangs  over  the  prison :  in  the  mixture  of 
despair  and  misery  and  drunkenness  and  madness  and  re- 
morse which  fills  the  prison,  an  air  which  strikes  terror  to  the 
very  soul.  They  took  me  into  a  large  vaulted  ante-room,  lit 
by  windows  high  up,  with  the  turnkey's  private  room  open- 
ing out  of  it,  and  doors  leading  into  the  interior  parts  of  the 
Prison.  The  room  was  filled  with  people  waiting  their  turn 
to  visit  the  prisoners ;  they  carried  baskets  and  packages  and 
bottles;  their  provisions,  in  a  word,  for  the  Prison  allows 
the  prisoners  no  more  than  one  small  loaf  of  bread  every  day. 
Some  of  the  visitors  were  quiet,  sober  people:  some  were 
women  on  whose  cheeks  lay  tears :  some  were  noisy,  reckless 
young  men,  who  laughed  over  the  coming-  fate  of  their 
friends ;  spoke  of  Tyburn  Fair ;  of  kicking  off  the  shoes  at 
the  gallows;  of  dying  game;  of  Newgate  music — meaning 
the  clatter  of  the  irons;  of  whining  and  snivelling;  and  so 


Out  of  the  Frying  Pan  Into  the  Fire    171 

forth.  They  took  in  wine,  or  perhaps  rum  under  the  name 
of  wine.  There  were  also  girls  whose  appearance  and  man- 
ner certainly  did  not  seem  as  if  sorrow  and  sympathy  with 
the  unfortunate  had  alone  brought  them  to  this  place.  Some 
of  the  girls  also  carried  bottles  of  wine  with  them  in  baskets. 

I  was  then  brought  before  the  Governor  who,  I  thought, 
would  perhaps  hear  me  if  I  declared  the  truth.  But  I  was 
wrong.  He  barely  looked  at  me ;  he  entered  my  name  and 
occupation,  and  the  nature  of  the  crime  with  which  I  was 
charged.  Then  he  coldly  ordered  me  to  be  taken  in  and 
ironed. 

The  turnkey  led  me  into  a  room  hung  with  irons.  'What 
side  ?'  he  asked. 

I  told  him  I  knew  nothing  about  any  sides. 

'Why/  he  said,  'I  thought  all  the  world  knew  so  much. 
There's  the  State  side.  If  you  go  there  you  will  pay  for 
admission  three  guineas;  for  garnish  and  a  pair  of  light 
irons,  one  guinea ;  for  rent  of  a  bed  half  a  guinea  a  week ; 
and  for  another  guinea  you  can  have  coals  and  candles,  plates 
and  a  knife.  Will  that  suit  you?'  He  looked  disdainfully 
at  the  dirt  and  blood  with  which  I  was  covered,  as  if  he 
thought  the  State  side  was  not  for  the  likes  of  me. 

'Alas !'  I  replied/I  cannot  go  to  the  State  side.' 

'I  thought  not,  by  the  look  of  you.  Well,  there's  the  mas- 
ter's side  next;  the  fee  for  admission  is  only  thirteen  and 
sixpence :  irons,  half  a  guinea :  the  rent  of  a  bed  or  part  of 
a  bed  half  a  crown,  and  as  for  your  food,  what  you  like  to 
order  and  pay  for.  No  credit  at  this  tavern,  which  is  the 
sign  of  the  Clinking  Iron.  Will  that  suit  you  ?' 

'No,  I  can  pay  nothing.' 

'Then  why  waste  time  asking  questions?  There's  the 
common  side ;  you've  g^t  to  go  into  that,  and  very  grateful 
you  ought  to  be  that  there  is  a  common  side  at  all  for  such  a 
filthy  Beast  as  you/ 

My  choice  must  needs  be  the  last  because  I  had  no  money 
at  all:  not  a  single  solitary  shilling — my  obliging  friends 
when  they  put  their  purse  into  my  pocket  as  a  proof  of  the 
alleged  robbery,  abstracted  my  own — which  no  doubt  the 
worthy  Professor  of  Sacred  Theology  had  in  his  pocket 
while  he  was  explaining  the  nature  of  the  attack  to  the  Con- 
stable. 

The  turnkey  while  he  grumbled  about  waste  of  time — a 
prisoner  ought  to  say  at  once  if  he  had  no  money:  officers 


172  The  Orange  Girl 

of  the  Prison  were  not  paid  to  tell  stories  to  every  ragged, 
filthy  footpad;  the  common  side  was  as  good  as  any  other 
on  the  way  to  Tyburn:  what  could  a  ragamuffin  covered 
with  blood  and  filth  expect  ? — picked  out  a  pair  of  irons :  they 
were  the  rustiest  and  the  heaviest  that  he  could  find :  as  he 
hammered  them  on  he  said  that  for  half  a  crown  he  would 
drive  the  rivet  into  my  heel  only  that  he  would  rob  his  friend 
Jack  Ketch  of  the  pleasure  of  turning  off  a  poor  whining 
devil  who  came  into  Newgate  without  a  copper.  'Damme !' 
he  cried,  as  he  finished  his  work,  'if  I  believe  you  ever  tried 
to  rob  anyone !' 

'I  did  not/  I  replied.  At  which  he  laughed,  recovering 
his  good  temper,  and  opening  a  door  shoved  me  through  and 
shut  it  behind  me. 

The  common  side  of  Newgate  is  a  place  which,  though  I 
was  in  it  no  more  than  two  hours  or  so,  remains  fixed  in  my 
memory  and  will  stay  there  as  long  as  life  remains.  The 
yard  was  filled  to  overflowing  with  a  company  of  the  vilest, 
the  filthiest,  and  the  most  shameless  that  it  is  possible  to 
imagine.  They  were  pickpockets,  footpads,  shoplifters,  rob- 
bers of  every  kind ;  they  were  in  rags ;  they  were  unwashed 
and  unshaven;  some  of  them  were  drunk;  some  of  them 
were  emaciated  by  insufficient  food — a  penny  loaf  a  day  was 
doled  out  to  those  who  had  no  money  and  no  friends :  that 
was  actually  all  that  the  poor  wretches  had  to  keep  body  and 
soul  together :  the  place  was  crowded  not  only  with  the  pris- 
oners, but  with  their  friends  and  relations  of  both  sexes; 
the  noise,  the  cursings,  the  ribald  laugh ;  the  drunken  song ; 
the  fighting  and  quarrelling  can  never  be  imagined.  And,  in 
the  narrow  space  of  the  yard  which  is  like  the  bottom  of  a 
deep  well,  there  is  no  air  moving,  so  that  the  stench  is 
enough,  at  first,  to  make  a  horse  sick. 

I  can  liken  it  to  nothing  but  a  sty  too  narrow  for  the  swine 
that  crowded  it ;  so  full  of  unclean  beasts  was  it,  so  full  of 
noise  and  pushing  and  quarrelling:  so  full  of  passions,  jeal- 
ousies, and  suspicions  ungoverned,  was  it.  Or  I  would  liken 
it  to  a  chamber  in  hell  when  the  sharp  agony  of  physical  suf- 
fering is  for  a  while  changed  for  the  equal  pains  of  such 
companionship  and  such  discourse  as  those  of  the  common 
side.  I  stood  near  the  door  as  the  turnkey  had  pushed  me 
in,  staring  stupidly  about.  Some  sat  on  the  stone  bench  with 
tobacco-pipes  and  pots  of  beer:  some  played  cards  on  the 
bench :  some  walked  about :  there  were  women  visitors,  but 


Out  of  the  Frying  Pan  Into  the  Fire    173 

not  one  whose  face  showed  shame  or  sorrow.  To  such 
people  as  these  Newgate  is  like  an  occasional  attack  of  sick- 
ness; a  whipping  is  but  one  symptom  of  the  disease:  im- 
prisonment is  the  natural  cure  of  the  disease;  hanging  is 
only  the  natural  common  and  inevitable  end  when  the  disease 
is  incurable,  just  as  death  in  his  bed  happens  to  a  man  with 
fever. 

While  I  looked  about  me,  a  man  stepped  out  of  the  crowd. 
'Garnish  !'  he  cried,  holding  out  his  hand.  Then  they  all 
crowded  round,  crying  'Garnish!  garnish!'  I  held  up  my 
hands  :  I  assured  them  that  I  was  penniless.  The  man  who 
had  first  spoken  waved  back  the  others  with  his  hand. 
'Friend/  he  said,  'if  you  have  no  money,  oft  with  your  coat.' 

'Then,  I  know  not  what  happened,  because  I  think  I  must 
have  fallen  into  a  kind  of  fit.  When  I  recovered  I  was  lying 
along  the  stone  bench:  my  coat  was  gone:  my  waistcoat 
was  gone  ;  my  shirt  was  in  rags  ;  my  shoes  —  on  which  were 
silver  buckles,  were  gone  ;  and  my  stockings,  which  were  of 
black  silk.  My  head  was  in  a  woman's  lap. 

'Well  done,'  she  said,  'I  thought  you'd  come  round.  'Twas 
the  touching  of  the  wound  on  your  head.  Brutes  and  beasts 
you  are,  all  of  you  !  all  of  you  !  One  comfort  is  you'll  all  be 
hanged,  and  that  very  soon.  It'll  be  a  happy  world  without 
you/ 

'Come,  Nan/  one  of  the  men  said,  'you  know  it's  the  rule. 
If  a  gentleman  won't  pay  his  garnish  he  must  give  up  his 
coat/ 

'Give  up  his  coat  !  You've  stripped  him  to  the  skin.  And 
him  with  an  open  wound  in  his  head  bleeding  again  like  a 


The  people  melted  away  :  they  offered  no  further  apology  ; 
but  the  coat  and  the  rest  of  the  things  were  not  returned. 

My  good  Samaritan,  to  judge  by  her  dress  and  appearance, 
was  one  of  the  commonest  of  common  women  —  the  wife  or 
the  mistress  of  a  Gaol-bird;  the  companion  of  thieves;  the 
accomplice  of  villains.  Yet  there  was  left  on  her  still,  what- 
ever the  habit  of  her  life,  this  touch  of  human  kindness  that 
made  her  come  to  the  assistance  of  a  helpless  stranger.  No 
Christian  could  have  done  more.  'Forasmuch/  said  Christ, 
'as  you  did  it  unto  one  of  these  you  did  it  unto  Me/  When  I 
read  these  words  I  think  of  this  poor  woman,  and  I  pray  for 
her. 

'Lie  still  a  minute/   she  said,  'I  will  stanch  the  bleeding 


1/4  The  Orange  Girl 

with  a  little  gin/  she  pulled  out  a  flat  bottle.  'It  is  good 
gin.  I  will  pour  a  little  on  the  wound.  That  can't  hurt — 
so.'  But  it  did  hurt.  'Now,  my  pretty  gentleman,  for  you 
are  a  gentleman,  though  maybe  only  a  gentleman  rider  and 
woundily  in  want  of  a  wash.  Take  a  sip  for  yourself,  don't 
be  afraid.  Take  a  long  sip.  I  brought  it  here  for  my  man, 
but  he's  dead.  He  died  in  the  night  after  a  fight  in  the  yard 
here.  He  got  a  knife  between  his  ribs,'  she  spoke  of  this 
occurrence  as  if  such  a  conclusion  to  a  fight  was  quite  in  the 
common  way.  'Look  here,  sir,  you've  no  business  in  this 
place.  Haven't  you  got  any  friends  to  pay  for  the  Master's 
side  ?  Now  you're  easier,  and  the  bleeding  has  stopped.  Can 
you  stand,  do  you  think  ?' 

I  made  a  shift  to  get  to  my  feet,  shivering  in  the  cold  damp 
November  air.  She  had  a  bundle  laying  on  the  bench.  "Tis 
my  man's  clothes,'  she  said.  'Take  his  coat  and  shoes.  You 
must.  Else  with  nothing  but  the  boards  to  sleep  upon  you'll 
be  starved  to  death.  Now  I  must  go  and  tell  his  friends  that 
my  man  is  dead.  Well — he  won't  be  hanged.  I  never  did 
like  to  think  that  I  should  be  the  widow  of  a  Tyburn  bird/ 

She  put  on  me  the  warm  thick  coat  that  had  been  her  hus- 
band's ;  she  put  on  his  shoes.  I  was  still  stupid  and  dull  of 
understanding.  But  I  tried  to  thank  her. 

Some  weeks  afterwards,  when  I  was  at  length  released,  I 
ventured  back  into  the  prison  in  hopes  of  finding  the  name 
and  the  residence  of  the  woman — Samaritan,  if  ever  there 
was  one.  The  turnkeys  could  tell  me  nothing.  The  gaol  was 
full  of  women,  they  said.  My  friend  was  named  Nan. 
They  were  all  Nans.  She  was  the  wife  of  a  prisoner  who 
died  in  the  place.  They  were  always  dying  on  the  common 
side.  That  was  nothing.  They  all  know  each  other  by 
name;  but  it  was  six  weeks  ago;  prisoners  change  every 
day ;  they  are  brought  in ;  they  are  sent  out  to  be  hanged, 
pilloried,  whipped  or  transported.  In  a  word  they  knew 
nothing  and  would  not  take  the  trouble  to  inquire.  What 
did  it  matter  to  these  men  made  callous  by  intimacy  with  suf- 
fering, that  a  woman  of  the  lower  kind  had  done  a  kind  and 
charitable  action?  Nevertheless,  we  have  Christ's  own  as- 
surance— His  words — His  promise.  The  woman's  action 
will  be  remembered  on  the  day  when  her  sins  shall  be  passed 
before  a  merciful  Judge.  Her  sins!  Alas!  she  was  what 
she  was  brought  up  to  be ;  her  sins  lie  upon  the  head  of  those 


Out  of  the  Frying  Pan  Into  the  Fire    1 75 

who  suffer  her,  and  those  like  to  her,  to  grow  up  without  re- 
ligion, or  virtue,  or  example,  or  admonition. 

By  this  time  I  was  growing  faint  with  hunger  as  well  as 
with  loss  of  blood  and  fatigue.  I  had  taken  nothing  for 
fourteen  hours ;  namely,  since  supper  the  evening  before  the 
attack.  The  first  effect  of  hunger  is  to  stop  the  power  of 
thought.  There  fell  upon  me  a  feeling  of  carelessness  as  if 
nothing  mattered:  the  night  in  the  watch-house:  the  ap- 
pearance before  the  magistrate:  my  reception  on  the  com- 
mon side:  all  passed  across  my  brain  as  if  they  belonged  to 
someone  else.  I  rose  with  difficulty,  but  staggered  and  fell 
back  upon  the  bench.  My  head  was  light :  I  seemed  strangely 
happy.  This  lightness  of  head  was  quickly  followed  by  a 
drowsiness  which  became  stupor.  How  long  I  lay  there  I 
know  not.  I  remember  nothing  until  a  heavy  hand  was  laid 
on  my  shoulder.  'Come/  it  was  the  voice  of  a  turnkey. 
'This  is  not  the  kind  of  place  for  an  afternoon  nap  in  No- 
vember. Come  this  way.  A  lady  wants  to  see  you/ 

He  led  me  to  the  door  of  the  common  side:  and  threw 
it  open:  in  the  waiting-room  was  none  other  than  Jenny 
herself.  How  had  she  learned  what  had  happened? 

'Oh!  my  poor  Will!'  she  cried,  the  tears  running  down 
her  cheeks.  'This  is  even  worse  than  I  expected.  But  first 
you  must  be  made  comfortable.  Here,  you  fellow/  she  called 
the  turnkey.  'Take  him  away.  I  will  pay  for  everything. 
Let  him  be  washed  and  get  his  wound  dressed ;  give  him  a 
clean  shirt  and  get  him  at  once  new  clothes/ 

'If  your  ladyship  pleases — ' 

'Change  these  rusty  irons  for  the  lightest  you  have.  Put 
him  into  the  best  cell  that  you  have  on  the  State  side.  Get  a 
dinner  for  him :  anything  that  is  quickest — cold  beef — ham 
— bread — a  bottle  of  Madeira.  Go — quick/  She  stamped  her 
foot  with  authority;  she  put  into  the  man's  hand  enough 
money  to  pay  for  half  a  dozen  prisoners  on  the  State  side. 
'Now,  fly — don't  crawl — fly! — one  would  think  you  were 
all  asleep.  A  pretty  place  this  is  to  sleep  in !' 

The  man  knocked  off  my  heavy  irons  and  substituted  a 
pair  of  lighter  ones,  highly  polished  and  even  ornamental. 
He  took  me  away  and  washed  me ;  it  was  in  the  turnkeys' 
room  on  the  right  hand  of  the  entrance ;  he  also  with  some 
dexterity  dressed  my  wound,  dressed  and  cleaned  my  hair — , 
it  was  rilled  with  clotted  blood;  he  fitted  me  with  new' 
clothes,  and  in  less  time  than  one  would  think  possible,  I 


176  The  Orange  Girl 

was  taken  back  looking  once  more  like  a  respectable  person, 
even  a  gentleman  if  I  chose  to  consider  myself  entitled  to 
claim  that  empty  rank.  I  found  Jenny  waiting  for  me  in 
the  best  cell  that  Newgate  could  offer  on  the  State  side :  a 
meal  was  spread  for  me,  with  a  bottle  of  wine. 

'Before  we  say  a  word,  Will,  sit  down  and  eat.  Heavens ! 
You  have  had  nothing  since  our  supper  last  night/ 

I  checked  an  impulse  to  thank  her:  I  drove  back  the 
swelling  in  my  heart.  Reader — I  was  too  hungry  for  thes'j 
emotions :  I  had  first  to  satisfy  starving  nature.  While  I  ate 
and  drank  Jenny  talked. 

'You  shall  tell  me  the  whole  story  presently,  Will.  Mean- 
time, go  on  with  your  dinner.  You  must  want  it,  my  poor 
friend.  Now  let  me  tell  you  why  I  am  here.  You  know  I 
was  uneasy  about  the  conspiracy  that  was  hatching.  I  feared 
it  might  be  meant  for  you.  So  great  was  my  uneasiness  that 
I  bade  my  sister  to  keep  watching  and  listening :  this  morn- 
ing about  one  o'clock  I  went  to  the  Black  Jack  myself  to 
learn  if  she  had  discovered  anything. 

'Well,  she  had  discovered  everything.  She  said  that  at 
eleven  o'clock  this  morning  the  two  fellows  called  the  Bishop 
and  the  Captain,  whom  I  had  taken  out  of  the  King's  Bench, 
came  to  the  Black  Jack,  laughing  and  very  merry :  they  called 
for  a  mug  of  purl  and  a  pack  of  cards:  that  while  they 
played  they  talked  out  loud  because  there  was  no  one  in  the 
house  except  themselves.  Doll  they  disregarded  as  they  al- 
ways do,  because  Doll  is  generally  occupied  with  her  slate 
and  her  scores,  which  she  adds  up  as  wrong  as  she  can.  They 
said  that  it  was  as  good  as  a  play  to  see  the  Attorney  playing 
the  indignant  friend  of  the  family,  and  how  their  own  evi- 
dence could  not  possibly  be  set  aside,  and  the  case  was  as 
good  as  finished  and  done  with ;  that  the  fellow  went  off  to 
Newgate  as  dumb  as  an  ox  to  the  shambles;  and  the  poor 
devil  had  no  money  and  no  friends,  and  must  needs  swing, 
and  the  whole  job  was  as  clean  and  creditable  piece  of  work 
as  had  ever  been  turned  out.  It  must  be  hanging:  nobody 
could  get  him  off.  Then  they  fell  to  wondering  as  well, 
what  Mr.  Probus  had  done  it  for;  and  what  he  would  get 
by  it ;  and  whether  (a  speculation  which  pleased  them  most) 
he  had  not  put  himself  into  Mr.  Merridew's  power,  in  which 
case  they  might  have  the  holy  joy  of  seeing  the  attorney  him- 
self, when  his  rope  was  out,  sitting  in  the  cart.  And  they 
congratulated  each  other  on  their  own  share  in  the  job ;  ten 


Out  of  the  Frying  Pan  Into  the  Fire    1 77 

guineas  apiece,  down,  and  a  promise  of  more  when  the  man 
was  out  of  the  way :  with  a  long  extension  of  time.'  I  con- 
dense Jenny's  narrative  which  was  long,  and  I  alter  the  lan- 
guage which  was  wandering. 

'When  Doll  told  me  all  this/  she  concluded,  'I  had  no 
longer  any  doubt  that  the  man  whom  they  had  succeeded  in 
placing  in  Newgate  was  none  other  than  yourself,  my  poor 
Will — so  I  took  a  coach  and  drove  here.' 

I  then  told  her  exactly  how  everything  had  happened. 

'I  hope/  she  said,  'that  Matthew,  if  he  is  in  the  conspiracy, 
does  not  know  what  has  been  done.  Besides,  the  chief  gainer 
will  be  Probus,  not  Matthew.  Remember,  Will,  it  is  just  a 
race ;  if  he  can  compass  your  death  before  Matthew  becomes 
bankrupt,  then  he  will  get  back  all  his  money — all  his  money. 
Think  of  that :  if  not,  he  will  lose  the  whole.  Well,  Will,  he 
thinks  nobody  knows  except  himself.  He  is  mistaken.  We 
shall  see — we  shall  see/  So  she  fell  to  considering  again. 

'If  there  is  a  loophole  of  escape/  she  went  on,  'he  will 
wriggle  out.  Let  us  think.  What  do  we  know?' 

'We  only  know  through  Ramage/  I  replied.  'Is  that 
enough  to  prove  the  conspiracy?  I  know  what  those  two 
men  are  who  are  the  leading  witnesses — how  can  I  prove  it  ? 
I  know  that  they  were  suborned  by  Probus  and  that  they  are 
in  the  power  of  Merridew.  How  can  I  prove  it?  I  know 
that  Probus  has  talked  to  my  cousin  about  my  possible  death, 
but  what  does  that  prove?  I  know  that  he  will  benefit  by 
my  death  to  the  amount  of  many  thousands,  but  how  can  I 
prove  it?  My  mouth  will  be  closed.  Where  are  my  wit- 
nesses ?' 

'You  can't  prove  anything,  Will.  And  therefore  you  had 
better  not  try/ 

'Jenny/  The  tears  came  to  my  unmanly  eyes.  'Leave 
me.  Go,  break  the  news  to  Alice,  and  prepare  her  mind  to 
see  me  die/ 

'I  will  break  the  news  to  Alice,  but  I  will  not  prepare  her 
mind  to  see  you  die.  For,  my  dear  cousin,  you  shall  not  die/ 
She  spoke  with  assurance.  She  was  standing  up  and  she 
brought  her  hand  down  upon  the  table  with  a  slap  which  with 
her  flashing  eyes  and  coloured  cheek  inspired  confidence  for 
the  moment.  'You  shall  not  die  by  the  conspiracy  of  these 
yillains.' 

'How  to  prevent  them  ?' 
'     'It  would  be  easy  if  their  friends  would   bear   evidence 


178  The  Orange  Girl 

against  them.  But  they  will  not.  They  will  sit  in  the  Court 
and  admire  the  tragic  perjuries  of  the  witnesses.  There  is 
one  rule  among  my  people  which  is  never  broken ;  no  .one 
must  peach  on  his  brother.  Shall  dog  bite  dog?  If  that 
rule  is  broken  it  is  never  forgiven — never — so  long  as  the 
offender  lives.' 

'Then,  what  can  we  do  ?' 

'The  short  way  would  be  to  buy  them.  But  in  this  respect 
they  cannot  be  bought.  They  will  rob  or  murder  or  perjure 
themselves  with  cheerfulness,  but  they  will  not  peach  on  their 
brother.  Money  will  not  tempt  them.  Jealousy  might,  but 
there  are  no  women  in  this  case.  Revenge  might,  but  there 
is  here  no  private  quarrel.  Besides,  they  are  all  in  the  hands 
of  the  man  Merridew.  To  thwart  him  would  bring  certain 
destruction  on  their  heads.  And  if  there  was  any  other  rea- 
son, they  are  naturally  anxious  to  avoid  a  Court  of  Justice. 
They  would  rather  see  their  own  children  hanged  than  go 
into  a  court  to  give  evidence,  true  or  false/ 

'Then  I  must  suffer,  Jenny/ 

'Nay,  Will,  I  said  not  so  much— -I  was  only  putting  the 
case  before  myself.  I  see  many  difficulties  but  there  is  al- 
ways a  way  out — always  an  end/ 

'Always  an  end/  I  repeated.  'Oh!  Jenny.  What  an 
end!' 

A  Newgate  fit  was  on  me;  that  is,  a  fit  of  despondency 
which  is  almost  despair.  All  the  inmates  of  Newgate  know 
what  it  means ;  the  rattling  of  the  irons ;  the  recollection  of 
the  trial  to  come;  a  word  that  jars;  and  the  Newgate  shud- 
dering seizes  a  man  and  shakes  him  up  and  down  till  it  is 
spent.  Jenny  made  me  drink  a  glass  of  wine.  The  fit  passed 
away. 

'I  feel/  I  said  at  last,  'as  if  the  rope  was  already  round  my 
neck.  My  poor  Alice !  My  poor  child !  Thou  wilt  be  the 
son  of  a  highwayman  and  a  Tyburn  bird.  To  the  third  and 
fourth  generation  .  .  .  ' 

'I  know  nothing  about  generations/  Jenny  interrupted. 
'All  I  know  is  that  you  are  going  to  be  saved.  Why,  man, 
consider.  Probus  knows  nothing  about  me ;  these  conspira- 
tors know  nothing  about  Madame  Vallance;  none  of  them 
have  the  least  suspicion ;  and  must  not  have :  that  you  know 
Jenny  of  the  Black  Jack.  Now  I  shall  try  to  get  a  case  as  to 
the  conspiracy  clear  without  attacking  the  loyalty  of  the  gang 
to  each  other.  I  have  thought  of  such  a  plan.  And  I  know 


Out  of  the  Frying  Pan  Into  the  Fire    1 79 

an  attorney.  You  have  seen  him.  He  is  tolerably  honest. 
He  shall  advise  us — I  will  send  him  here.  Be  of  good  cheer, 
iWill.  I  go  to  fetch  Alice.  Put  on  a  smiling  countenance  to 
greet  her.  Come,  you  are  a  man.  Lift  the  drooping  spirit 
of  the  woman  who  loves  you.  Keep  up  her  heart  if  not  your 
own.' 

She  came  back  at  about  five:  the  day  was  already  over; 
the  yards  and  courts  of  the  Prison  were  already  dark.  My 
cell  was  lit  with  a  pair  of  candles  when  Jenny  brought  Alice 
and  her  brother  Tom  to  see  me. 

Alice,  poor  child !  fell  into  my  arms  and  so  lay  for  a  long 
time,  unable  to  speak  for  the  sobs  that  tore  her  almost  in 
pieces,  yet  unwilling  to  let  me  see  her  weakness. 

Tom — the  good  fellow — assumed  the  same  air  of  cheerful- 
ness which  he  had  learned  to  show  in  the  King's  Bench.  He 
sniffed  the  air  approvingly.  He  looked  round  with  pre- 
tended satisfaction.  'Ha !'  he  said,  'this  place  hath  been  mis- 
represented. The  room  is  convenient,  if  small ;  the  furni- 
ture solid :  the  air  is  not  so  close  as  one  might  expect.  For 
a  brief  residence — a  temporary  residence — a  man  might  .  .  . 
might — I  say — '  He  cleared  his  throat;  the  tears  came  into 
his  eyes:  he  sank  into  a  chair.  'Oh!  Will  .  .  .  Will,'  he 
cried,  breaking  down,  and  unable  to  pretend  any  longer. 

Then  no  one  spoke.     Indeed  all  our  hearts  were  full. 

'It  is  not  so  much  on  your  account,  Will/  said  Jenny — 
I  observed  that  she  wore  a  domino,  and  indeed,  she  never 
came  to  the  prison  after  the  first  visit  without  a  domino,  a 
precaution  by  no  means  unusual,  because  ladies  might  not 
like  to  be  seen  in  Newgate,  and  in  any  case  it  might  arouse 
suspicions  if  Jenny  were  recognised.  'I  say  it  is  not  on  your 
account,  so  much  as  for  the  sake  of  this  dear  creature. 
Madam — Alice — I  implore  you — take  courage;  we  have  the 
proofs  of  the  conspiracy  in  our  hands.  It  is  a  black  and  hell- 
ish plot.  The  only  difficulty  is  as  to  the  best  means  of  using 
our  knowledge,  and  here,  I  confess,  for  the  moment,  I  am 
not  certain — ' 

Alice  recovered  herself  and  stood  up,  holding  my  hand. 
'I  cannot  believe/  she  said,  'that  such  wickedness  as  this 
will  be  permitted  to  succeed.  It  would  bring  shame  and 
sorrow  on  children  and  grandchildren  to  the  third  and  fourth 
generations/ 

'You  all  talk  about  generations/  said  Jenny.  'For  my  part 
I  think  of  you  that  are  alive,  not  those  who  are  to  come. 


180  The  Orange  Girl 

Well,  so  far  it  has  not  succeeded.  For  the  conspirators  are 
known  to  me  and  I  am  Will's  cousin — and  this  they  know 
not/ 

They  stayed  talking  till  nine  o'clock  when  visitors  had  to 
leave  the  Prison.  Jenny  cheered  all  our  hearts.  She  would 
hear  of  no  difficulties :  all  was  clear :  all  was  easy :  she  had 
the  conspirators  in  her  power.  To-morrow  she  would  re- 
turn with  her  honest  and  clever  attorney.  So  Alice  went 
away  with  a  lighter  heart,  and  I  was  left  for  the  night  alone 
in  my  cell  with  a  gleam  of  hope.  In  the  morning  that  gleam 
left  me,  and  the  day  broke  upon  the  place  of  gloom  and 
brought  with  it  only  misery  and  despair. 

In  the  forenoon  Jenny  returned  with  her  attorney.  He 
was  the  man  who  had  already  acted  for  me.  His  name  was 
Dewberry ;  he  was  possessed  of  a  manner  easy  and  assured, 
which  inspired  confidence:  in  face  and  figure  he  was  at- 
tractive, and  he  betrayed  no  eagerness  to  possess  himself  of 
his  client's  money.  I  observed  also,  at  the  outset,  that,  like 
all  the  rest  he  was  the  servant  (who  would,  if  he  could,  be- 
come the  lover)  of  Jenny. 

'Now,  Mr.  Halliday,'  he  said,  'I  have  heard  some  part  of 
your  story  from  Madame  Vallance.  I  want,  next,  to  hear 
your  own  version/  So  I  told  it,  while  he  listened  gravely, 
making  notes. 

'It  is  certainly,'  he  said,  'a  very  strong  point  that  your 
death  would  give  Probus  the  chance  of  recovering  his 
money.  Your  cousin  could  then  pay  him  off,  if  he  wished, 
in  full.  Whether  he  would  do  so  is  another  question.  If 
bankruptcy  arrives  and  finds  you  still  living,  all  the  creditors 
would  be  considered  together.  Madame,'  he  turned  to  Jenny, 
'you  who  have  so  fine  a  head  for  management,  let  us  hear 
your  opinion/ 

'I  think  of  nothing  else/  she  said.  'Yet  I  cannot  satisfy 
myself.  I  have  thought  that  my  sister  Doll  might  warn  the 
Captain  that  both  he  and  the  Bishop  would  be  exposed  in 
Court.  But  what  would  happen  ?  They  would  instantly  go 
off  with  the  news  to  Merridew.  And  then?  An  informa- 
tion against  Doll  and  my  mother  for  receiving  stolen  goods. 
And  what  would  happen  then?  You  know  very  well,  Mr. 
Dewberry.  They  would  have  to  buy  their  release  by  for- 
bidding the  exposure !  Why,  they  are  the  most  notorious  re- 
ceivers living.  Or,  suppose  Doll  plainly  told  them  that  her 
sister  Jenny  knew  the  whole  case — they  don't  know  at  pres- 


Out  of  the  Frying  Pan  Into  the  Fire    1 8 1 

ent — at  least,  I  think  not — where  I  am — but  they  can  easily 
find  out — that  I  knew  the  whole  case  and  meant  to  expose 
them.  What  would  happen  next  ?  Murder,  my  masters.  I 
should  be  found  on  my  bed  with  my  throat  cut,  and  a  letter  to 
show  that  it  was  done  by  one  of  my  maids/ 

'Jenny,  for  Heaven's  sake,  do  not  run  these  risks/ 

'Not  if  I  can  help  it,  Will.  Do  you  know  what  I  think  of 
— besides?  It  is  a  doubt  whether  Matthew  would  be  more 
rejoiced  to  see  the  conspiracy  succeed  and  you  put  out  of  the 
way,  or  to  witness  the  conviction  of  Probus  for  conspiracy/ 

'Softly — softly,  Madam/  said  the  attorney ;  'we  are  a  long 
way  yet  from  the  trial,  even,  of  Mr.  Probus/ 

'Jenny/  I  said,  'your  words  bring  me  confidence/ 

'If  you  feel  all  the  confidence  that  there  is  in  Newgate  it 
will  not  be  enough,  Will,  for  the  confidence  that  you  ought  to 
have.  But  we  must  work  in  silence.  If  our  friends  only 
knew  what  we  are  talking  here,  why  then — the  Lord  help 
the  landlady  of  the  Black  Jack  and  her  two  daughters,  Jenny 
and  Doll !' 

'You  must  be  aware,  Sir/  said  Mr.  Dewberry,  'that  it  is 
absolutely  necessary  for  us  to  preserve  silence  upon  every- 
thing connected  with  your  defence.  You  must  not  com- 
municate any  details  upon  the  subject  to  your  most  intimate 
friends  and  relations/ 

'He  means  Alice/  said  Jenny. 

'We  must  have  secrecy/ 

'You  may  trust  a  man  whose  life  is  at  stake/ 

'Yes.  Now  the  principal  witnesses  are  the  pretended 
Divine  and  the  pretended  country  gentleman.  They  rest  in 
the  assurance  that  none  of  their  friends  will  betray  them. 
We  must  see  what  can  be  done.  If  we  prove  that  your 
Irish  Divine  is  a  common  rogue  we  make  his  evidence  sus- 
pected, but  we  do  not  prove  the  conspiracy.  The  fellow 
might  brave  it  out,  and  still  swear  to  the  attempted  robbery. 
Then  as  to  the  other  worthy,  we  may  prove  that  he  is  a 
notorious  rogue.  Still  he  may  swear  stoutly  to  his  evidence. 
We  must  prove,  in  addition,  that  these  two  rogues  are  known 
to  each  other — ' 

'That  can  be  proved  by  any  who  were  in  the  King's  Bench 
Prison  with  them — ' 
.     'And  we  must  connect  them  with  Probus  and  Merridew/ 

'I  can  prove  that  as  well/  said  Jenny.     'That  is,  if — ' 

She  paused. 


1 82  The  Orange  Girl 

'If  your  witnesses  will  give  evidence.  Madam,  I  would 
not  pour  cold  water  on  your  confidence — but — will  your  wit- 
nesses go  into  the  box  ?' 

Jenny  smiled.  'I  believe/  she  said,  'that  I  can  fill  the 
Court  with  witnesses.' 

'I  want  more  than  belief — I  want  certainty/ 

'There  is  another  way/  said  Jenny.  'If  we  could  let  Mr. 
Probus  understand  that  the  sudden  and  unexpected  appear- 
ance of  a  new  set  of  creditors  would  force  on  Bankruptcy 
immediately — ' 

Mr.  Dewberry  interposed  hastily.  'Madam,  I  implore  you. 
There  is  no  necessity  at  all.  Sir,  this  lady  would  actually 
sacrifice  her  own  fortune  and  her  future  prospects  in  your 
cause/ 

'For  his  safety  and  for  his  life — everything/ 

'I  assure  you,  dear  Madam,  there  is  no  need.  Your  affairs 
want  only  patience,  and  they  will  adjust  themselves.  To 
throw  them  also  upon  your  husband's  other  liabilities  would 
not  help  this  gentleman.  For  this  reason.  There  are  a 
thousand  tricks  and  subtleties  which  a  man  of  Mr.  Probus's 
knowledge  may  employ  for  the  postponement  of  bankruptcy 
until  after  the  trial  of  our  friend  here.  You  know  not  the 
resources  of  the  law  in  a  trained  hand.  I  mean  that,  suppos- 
ing Mr.  Probus  to  reckon  on  the  success  of  this  conspiracy 
• — in  which  I  grieve  to  find  a  brother  in  the  profession  in- 
volved ;  he  may  cause  these  delays  to  extend  until  his  end  is 
accomplished  or  defeated.  A  man  of  the  Law,  Madam,  has 
great  powers/ 

I  groaned. 

'Another  point  is  that,  unless  I  am  much  mistaken,  this 
conspiracy  is  intended  to  intimidate  and  not  to  be  carried 
out.  Mr.  Probus  will  offer  you,  I  take  it,  your!  liberty  on 
condition  of  your  yielding  in  the  matter  of  that  money/ 

'Never!'   I  declared.     'I  will  die  first!' 

'Then  it  remains  to  be  seen  if  he  will  carry  the  thing 
through/ 

So  they  went  on  arguing  on  this  side  and  on  that  side: 
which  line  of  action  was  best :  which  was  dangerous :  in  the 
end,  as  you  shall  see,  Jenny  took  the  management  of  the  case 
into  her  own  hands  with  results  which  astonished  Mr.  Dew- 
berry as  well  as  the  Court,  myself,  and  the  four  heroes  of  the 
conspiracy. 

Five  weeks,  I  learned,  would  elapse  before  my  case  would 


Out  of  the  Frying  Pan  Into  the  Fire    183 

l>e  tried  in  Court.  It  was  a  long  and  a  tedious  time  to  con- 
template in  advance.  Meantime,  I  was  kept  in  ignorance, 
for  the  most  part,  of  what  was  being  done.  Afterwards  I 
learned  that  Jenny  carried  on  the  work  in  secrecy,  so  that  not 
only  the  conspirators  might  not  have  the  least  suspicion  but 
that  even  Mr.  Dewberry  did  not  know  what  was  doing 
until  she  placed  the  case  complete,  in  his  hands  a  few  days 
before  the  trial.  Jenny  contrived  all:  Jenny  paid  for  all: 
what  the  case  cost  her  in  money  I  never  learned.  She  spared 
nothing,  neither  labour,  nor  travel,  nor  money.  Meantime 
I  lived  on  now  in  hope,  now  in  despondency :  to  go  outside 
among  my  fellow  prisoners  was  to  increase  the  wretchedness 
of  prison.  Every  morning  Alice  brought  provisions  for  the 
day.  Tom  brought  me  my  violin  and  music  so  that  I  was 
not  without  some  consolations. 

'As  I  remember  this  gloomy  period,  I  remember  with 
thankfulness  how  I  was  stayed  and  comforted  by  two 
women,  of  whom  one  was  a  Saint :  and  the  other  was — well, 
Heaven  forbid  that  I  should  call  her  a  Sinner,  in  whom  I 
never  found  the  least  blemish :  but  not,  at  least,  a  Christian. 
The  first  offered  up  prayers  for  me  day  and  night,  wrestling 
in  prayer  like  Jacob,  for  the  open  manifestation  of  my  inno- 
cence. Alice  was  filled  with  a  sublime  faith.  The  Lord 
whom  she  worshipped  was  very  near  to  her.  He  would  de- 
stroy His  enemies;  He  would  preserve  the  innocent;  the 
wicked  would  be  cast  down  and  put  to  perpetual  shame. 
Never  have  I  witnessed  a  faith  so  simple  and  so  strong.  Yet 
to  all  seeming ;  to  the  conspirators  themselves ;  I  had  not  a 
single  witness  whom  I  could  call  in  my  defence :  that  a  man 
was  poor  favoured  the  chance  of  his  becoming  a  robber ;  that 
a  brother-in-law,  also  a  prisoner  in  the  Rules,  should  be 
ready  to  say  that  I  was  incapable  of  such  an  action  could  not 
help.  What  could  we  allege  against  the  clear  and  strong 
evidence  that  the  four  perjured  villains  would  offer  when 
they  should  stand  up,  and  swear  away  my  life  ?  'Have  cour- 
age/ said  Alice,  'Help  cometh  from  the  Lord.  He  will  have 
rnercy  upon  the  child  and — oh!  Will — Will — He  will  have 
mercy  upon  the  father  of  the  child/ 

Mr.  Dewberry  came  often.  He  had  little  to  tell  me.  Jenny 
had  gone  away.  Jenny  had  not  told  him  what  she  was 
doing.  'Sir/  he  said,  'but  for  the  confidence  I  have  in  that 
incomparable  woman  and  in  her  assurances  I  should  feel 
anxious.  For  as  yet,  and  we  are  within  a  fortnight  of  the 


1 84  The  Orange  Girl 

trial,  I  have  not  a  single  witness  who  can  prove  the  real  char- 
acter of  the  pretended  Divine  and  the  pretended  country  gen- 
tleman. But  since  Madam  assures  us — '  He  produced  his 
snuff-box  and  offered  it — 'Why — then,  Sir — in  that  case — I 
believe  in  the  success  of  your  defence/ 


CHAPTER  X 

THE  SAME  OFFER 

THUS  I  passed  that  weary  and  anxious  imprisonment.  The 
way  of  getting  through  the  day  was  always  the  same.  Soon 
after  daylight,  I  went  out  and  walked  in  the  yards  for  half 
an  hour.  The  early  morning,  indeed,  was  the  only  time  of 
the  day  when  a  man  of  decent  manners  could  venture 
abroad  even  on  the  State  side.  At  that  time  the  visitors  had 
not  yet  begun  to  arrive ;  the  men  were  still  sleeping  off  their 
carouse  of  the  evening  before ;  only  a  few  wretches  to  whom 
a  dismal  foreboding  of  the  future,  a  guilty  conscience,  an 
aching  heart,  would  not  allow  sleep,  crept  dolefully  about  the 
empty  yards;  restlessly  sitting  or  standing:  if  they  spoke 
to  each  other,  it  was  with  distracted  words  showing  that  they 
knew  not  what  they  said.  Alas!  The  drunken  orgies  of 
the  others  caused  them  at  least  some  relief  from  the  terrible 
sufferings  of  remorse  and  looking  forward.  It  is  not  often 
that  one  can  find  an  excuse  for  drunkenness. 

After  this  melancholy  walk  I  returned  to  my  cell  where  I 
played  for  an  hour  or  two,  afterwards  reading  or  meditating. 
But  always  my  thoughts  turned  to  the  impending  trial.  I 
represented  myself  called  upon  to  make  my  own  defence :  I 
read  it  aloud:  I  failed  to  impress  the  Jury:  the  Judge 
summed  up:  the  Jury  retired:  cold  beads  stood  upon  my 
forehead :  I  trembled :  I  shook :  the  verdict  was  Guilty :  the 
Judge  assumed  the  black  cap —  Verily  I  suffered,  every 
day,  despite  the  assurance  of  Jenny  and  Mr.  Dewberry,  all 
the  tortures  of  one  convicted  and  condemned  to  death.  If 
my  heart  were  examined  after  my  death  sure  I  am  that  a 
black  cap  would  be  found  engraven  upon  it,  to  show  the 
.agonies  which  I  endured/ 

About  pne  o'clock  Alice  arrived,  sometimes  with  Tom/ 


Out  of  the  Frying  Pan  Into  the  Fire    185 

sometimes  alone.  As  for  Tom  he  had  quickly  rallied  and 
had  now  completely  accepted  the  assurance  that  an  acquittal 
was  certain:  his  confidence  would  have  been  wonderful  but 
for  the  consideration  that  it  was  not  Lis  own  neck  that  was 
in  danger  but  that  of  his  brother-in-law.  The  child  was  not 
allowed  to  be  brought  into  the  prison  for  fear  of  the  fever 
which  always  lurks  about  the  wards  and  cells  and  corridors. 
In  the  afternoon,  while  we  were  talking,  Jenny  herself,  when 
she  was  not  on  her  mysterious  journeys,  came  wearing  a 
domino.  About  four  o'clock,  Tom  departed  and,  a  little  after, 
Alice.  Then  I  was  left  alone  to  sleep  and  reflection  for 
twelve  hours. 

This  was  the  daily  routine.  On  Sunday  there  was  service, 
in  the  chapel,  made  horrid  by  the  condemned  prisoners  in 
their  pew  sitting  round  the  empty  coffin :  and  by  the  ribaldry 
and  blasphemous  jests  of  the  prisoners  themselves.  Not 
even  in  the  chapel  could  they  refrain. 

One  afternoon  there  was  a  surprise.  We  were  sitting  in 
conversation  together,  Alice  and  Jenny  with  my  brother-in- 
law  Tom,  and  myself,  when  we  received  a  visit  from  no  less  a 
person  than  Mr.  Probus  himself.  That  Prince  of  villains 
had  the  audacity  to  call  in  person  upon  me.  He  stood  in  the 
doorway,  his  long,  lean  body  bent,  wearing  a  smile  that  had 
evidently  been  borrowed  for  the  occasion.  I  sprang  to  my 
feet  with  indignation.  My  arm  was  gently  touched.  Jenny 
sat  beside  me,  but  a  little  behind. 

'Hush !'  she  whispered.  'Let  him  say  what  he  has  to  say. 
Sit  down.  Do  not  answer  by  a  single  word.' 

Mr.  Probus  looked  disconcerted  to  see  me  resume  my 
chair  and  make  as  if  I  neither  saw  nor  heard.  I 

'You  did  not  expect,  Mr.  Halliday,  to  see  me  here  ?' 

I  made  no  reply. 

'I  am  astonished,  I  confess,  to  find  myself  here,  after  all 
that  has  passed.  Respect  for  the  memory  of  my  late 'em- 
ployer and  client,  Sir  Peter  Halliday,  must  be  my  excuse — 
my  only  excuse.  Respect,  and,  if  I  may  be  permitted  to  add, 
compassion — compassion,  Madam' — he  bowed  to  Alice. 

'Compassion,  Sir,  is  a  Christian  virtue,'  she  said,  with  such 
emphasis  on  the  adjective  as  to  imply  astonishment  at  finding 
that  quality  in  Mr.  Probus. 

'Assuredly,  Madam — assuredly,  which  is  the  reason  why 
I  cultivate  it — sometimes  to  my  own  loss — my  own  loss/ 

'Sir/  Alice  went  on,  'you  cannot  but  be  aware  that  youc 


1 86  The  Orange  Girl 

presence  here  is  distasteful.  Will  you  be  so  good  as  to  tell 
us  what  you  have  to  say  ?' 

'Certainly,  Madam.  I  think  I  have  seen  you  before.  You 
are  Mr.  William  Halliday's  wife.  This  gentleman  I  have 
not  seen  before/ 

'He  is  my  brother/ 

'Your  brother — And  the  lady  who  prefers  to  wear  a 
domino?'  For  Jenny  had  made  haste  to  replace  that  dis- 
guise. 'No  doubt  it  is  proper  in  Newgate — but  is  it  necess- 
ary among  friends?' 

'This  lady  is  my  cousin,'  said  Alice.  'She  will  please  her- 
self as  to  what  she  wears/ 

'Your  cousin.  We  are  therefore,  as  one  may  say,  a  family 
party.  The  defendant ;  his  wife :  his  brother-in-law :  his 
cousin.  This  is  very  good.  This  is  what  I  should  have 
desired  above  all  things  had  I  prayed  upon  my  way  hither. 
A  family  party/ 

'Mr.  Probus/  said  Alice,  'if  this  discourse  is  to  continue 
beware  how  you  speak  of  prayers/  Never  had  I  seen  her 
face  so  set,  so  full  of  righteous  wrath,  with  so  much  repres- 
sion. The  man  quaked  under  her  eyes. 

'I  come  to  business,'  he  said.  'I  fear  there  is  a  spirit  of 
suspicion,  even  of  hostility,  abroad.  Let  that  pass.  I  hope, 
indeed,  to  remove  it.  Now,  if  you  please,  give  me  your 
attention/ 

He  was  now.  the  lawyer  alert  and  watchful.  'Your  trial, 
Mr.  Halliday,  takes  place  in  a  short  time — a  few  days.  I  do 
not  know  what  defence  you  will  attempt — I  hope  you  may  be 
successful — I  have  thought  upon  the  subject,  and,  I  confess 
— well — I  can  only  say  that  I  do  net  know  what  kind  of  de- 
fence will  be  possible  in  a  case  so  clear  and  so  well  attested/ 

'Hush!'  Jenny  laid  her  hand  again  on  my  arm.  'Hush!' 
she  whispered. 

I  restrained  myself  and  still  sat  in  silence. 

'Let  me  point  out  to  you — in  a  moment  you  will  under- 
stand why — how  you  stand.  You  know,  of  course,  yet  it 
is  always  well  to  be  clear  in  one's  mind — the  principal  evi- 
dence is  that  given  by  those  two  gentlemen  from  the  country, 
the  young  squire  of  Cumberland — or  is  it  Westmoreland? — 
and  the  clergyman  of  the  Sister  Kingdom.  I  have  naturally 
been  in  frequent  communication  with  those  two  gentlemen. 
I  find  that  they  are  both  kept  in  London  to  the  detriment  of 
their,  own  affairs :  that  they  would  willingly  get  the  business 


Out  of  the  Frying  Pan  Into  the  Fire    187 

despatched  quickly  so  that  they  would  be  free  to  go  home 
again:  that  they  bear  no  malice — none  whatever:  one 
because  he  is  a  clergyman,  and  therefore  practises 
forgiveness  as  a  Christian  duty:  the  other  because  he 
is  a  gentleman  who  scorns  revenge,  and,  besides,  was  not  the 
attacked,  but  the  attacking  party.  "So  far,"  says  the  noble- 
hearted  gentleman,  "from  desiring  to  hang  the  poor  wretch, 
I  would  willingly  suffer  him  to  go  at  large."  This  is  a  dis- 
position of  mind  which  promises  a  great  deal.  I  have  never 
found  a  more  happy  disposition  in  any  witness  before.  No 
resentment:  no  revenge:  no  desire  for  a  fatal  termination 
to  the  trial.  It  is  wonderful  and  rare.  So  I  came  over  to 
tell  you  what  they  say  and  to  entreat  you  to  make  use  of  this 
friendly  temper  while  it  lasts.  They  might — I  do  not  say 
they  will — but  they  might  be  induced  to  withdraw  altogether 
from  the  trial,  in  which  case  the  prosecution  would  fall  to 
the  ground.  For  the  case  depends  wholly  upon  their  evi- 
dence. For  myself,  as  you  know,  I  arrived  by  accident  upon 
the  scene,  and  was  too  late  to  see  anything.  Mr.  Merridew 
tells  me  that  what  he  saw  might  have  been  a  fight  rather  than 
a  robbery;  I  ought  not  to  have  revealed  this  weak  point  in 
the  evidence,  but  I  am  all  for  mercy — all  for  mercy.  So  I 
say,  that  if  their  evidence  is  not  forthcoming,  the  prosecution 
must  fall  through,  and  then,  dear  Sir,  liberty  would  be  once 
more  your  happy  lot.'  He  stopped  and  folded  his  arms. 

I  had  not  offered  him  a  chair  partly  because  he  was  Mr. 
Probus  and  I  would  not  suffer  him  to  sit  in  my  presence: 
partly  because  there  was  no  chair  to  offer  him. 

These  gentlemen,  Sir/  said  Tom,  'are  willing,  we  under- 
stand, to  retire  from  the  case/ 

'I  would  not  say  willing.  I  would  rather  say,  not  unwill- 
ing/ 

'Do  they/  Tom  asked,  'demand  money  as  a  bribe  as  a  price 
for  retiring?' 

'No,  Sir.  These  gentlemen  are  far  above  any  such  con- 
sideration. I  believe  they  would  be  simply  contented  with 
such  a  sum  of  money  as  would  meet  their  personal  expenses 
and  their  losses  by  this  prolonged  stay/ 

'And  to  how  much  may  these  losses  and  expenses,  taken 
together,  amount?' 

'I  hear  that  his  Reverence  has  lost  a  valuable  Lectureship 
which  has  been  given  to  another  in  his  absence:  and  that 


1 88  The  Orange  Girl 

the  Squire  has  sustained  losses  among  his  cattle  and  his 
horses  also  owing  to  his  absence.' 

'And  the  combined  figures,  Sir,  which  would  cover  these 
losses  ?' 

'I  cannot  say  positively.  Probably  the  clergyman's  losses 
would  be  represented  by  £400  and  the  Squire's  by  £600. 
There  would  be  my  own  costs  in  the  case  as  well — but  they 
are — as  usual — a  trifle.' 

'And  suppose  we  were  to  pay  this  money,'  Tom  con- 
tinued, 'what  should  we  have  to  prove  that  they  would  not 
give  their  evidence?' 

'Sir — There  you  touch  me  on  the  tenderest  point — the 
"pundonor,"  as  the  Spaniards  say.  You  should  lodge  the 
money  with  any  person  in  whom  we  could  agree  as  a  person 
of  honour — and  after  the  case  for  the  prosecution  had  broken 
down — not  before — he  should  give  me  that  money.  Observe 
that  on  the  part  of  these  two  simple  gentlemen  there  is  trust, 
even  in  an  attorney — in  myself.' 

I  said  nothing,  for  as  the  man  knew  that  I  could  not  find 
a  tenth  part  of  the  sum,  I  knew  there  was  something  behind. 
What  it  was  I  guessed  very  well.  And,  in  fact,  Mr.  Pro- 
bus  immediately  showed  what  it  was. 

'Mr.  Halliday,'  he  said,  'I  believe  that  I  know  your  cir- 
cumstances. I  have  on  one  or  two  occasions  had  to  make 
myself  acquainted  with  them.  I  shall  not  give  offence  if  I 
suppose  that  you  cannot  immediately  raise  the  sum  of  £1,000 
even  to  save  your  life. 

He  spoke  to  me,  but  he  looked  at  Alice. 

'He  cannot,  certainly,'  said  Alice,  'either  immediately  or 
in  any  time  proposed.' 

'Quite  so.  Now,  this  is  a  case  of  life  or  death — life  or 
death,  Sir :  life  or  death,  Madam :  an  honourable  life — a  long 
life  for  your  husband:  or  a  shameful  death — a  shameful 
death :  shameful  to  him :  shameful  to  you :  shameful  to  your 
child  or  children/ 

'Hush !'  whispered  Jenny,  laying  a  repressive  hand  again 
upon  my  shoulder,  for  again  I  was  boiling  over  with  indig- 
nation. What !  The  author  and  contriver  of  this  shameful 
death  was  to  come  and  call  attention  to  the  disgrace  of 
which  he  was  the  sole  cause !  Had  I  been  left  to  myself 
without  Alice  or  Jenny,  I  would  have  brained  the  old  vil- 
lain. But  I  obeyed  and  sat  in  silence,  answering  nothing. 

'Consider,  Madam' — he  continued  to  address  Alice — 'this 


Out  of  the  Frying  Pan  Into  the  Fire    189 

is  not  a  time  for  false  pride  or  for  obstinacy,  or  even  for 
standing  out  for  better  terms.  Once  more  I  make  the  same 
offer  which  I  made  before.  Let  him  sell  his  chance  of  a 
certain  succession  of  which  he  knows.  Let  him  do  that, 
and  all  his  difficulties  and  troubles  will  vanish  like  the  smoke 
of  a  bonfire.  I  tell  you  plainly,  Madam,  that  I  can  control 
the  appearance  of  this  evidence  without  which  the  prose- 
cution can  do  nothing.  I  will  control  it.  If  he  agrees  to 
sell,  your  husband  shall  walk  out,  on  the  day  of  the  trial,  a 
free  man/  He  drew  out  of  his  pocket  a  pocket-book  and 
from  that  a  document  which  I  remembered  well — the  deed  of 
sale  or  transfer. 

Nobody  replied.  Alice  looked  at  me  anxiously.  I  re- 
mained silent  and  dogged. 

'Two  years  ago — or  somewhere  about  that  time — I  made 
the  same  proposal  to  him.  I  offered  him  £3,000  down  for  his 
share  of  an  estate  which  might  never  be  his — or  only  after 
long  years — I  offered  him  £3,000  down.  It  was  a  large  sum 
of  money.  He  refused.  A  day  or  two  afterwards  he  found 
himself  in  the  King's  Bench  Prison.  I  would  recall  that 
coincidence  to  you.  Four  or  five  weeks  ago  I  made  a  similar 
offer.  This  time  I  proposed  £4,000  down.  He  refused 
again,  blind  to  his  own  interest.  A  few  days  afterwards 
he  found  himself  within  these  walls  on  a  capital 
charge.  A  third  time,  and  the  last  time,  I  make  him  an- 
other offer.  This  time  I  raise  the  sum  to  £5,000 
in  order  to  cover  the  losses  of  those  two  witnesses,  and 
in  addition  to  the  money,  which  is  a  large  sum,  enough  to 
carry  you  on  in  comfort  and  in  credit,  I  offer  your  husband 
the  crowning  gift  of  life.  Life — do  you  hear,  woman !  Life : 
and  honour :  and  credit — life — life — life — I  say/ 

His  face  was  troubled :  his  accents  were  eager :  he  was  not 
acting:  he  felt  that  he  was  offering  me  far  more  than  any- 
thing he  had  ever  offered  me  before. 

'Hush/  whispered  Jenny,  keeping  me  quiet  again — for  all 
the  time  I  was  longing  to  spring  to  my  feet  and  to  let  loose 
a  tongue  of  fiery  eloquence.  But  to  sit  quite  quiet  and  to 
say  nothing  was  galling. 

Take  it,  Will,  take  it/  said  Tom.  'If  the  gentleman  can 
do  what  he  promises,  take  it.  Life  and  liberty — I  say — be- 
fore all/ 

'Sir/  said  Alice — her  voice  was  gentle,  but  it  was  strong: 
her  face  was  sweet,  but  it  was  firm.  The  man  saw  and  lis- 


190  The  Orange  Girl 

tened — and  misunderstood.  'I  know  the  mind  of  my  hus- 
band in  this  matter.  For  reasons  which  you  understand,  he 
will  not  speak  to  you.  The  money  that  was  devised  by  his 
father  to  the  survivor  of  the  two — his  cousin  or  himself — 
has  always  been  accepted  by  him  as  a  proof  that  at  the  end 
his  father  desired  him  to  understand  that  he  was  not  wholly 
unforgiven:  that  there  was  a  loophole  of  forgiveness,  but 
he  did  not  explain  what  that  was :  that  should  my  husband, 
who  has  no  desire  to  see  the  death  of  his  cousin,  survive  Mr. 
Matthew,  he  will  receive  the  fortune  as  a  proof  that  a  life 
of  hard  and  honest  work  has  been  accepted  by  his  father  in 
full  forgiveness.  Sir,  my  husband  considers  his  father's 
wishes  as  sacred.  Nothing — no  pressure  of  poverty — no 
danger  such  as  the  present  will  ever  make  him  consent  to 
sign  the  document  you  have  so  often  submitted  to  him/ 

'Then' — Mr.  Probus  put  back  his  paper — 'if  this  is  your 
last  word — remember — you  have  but  a  few  days  left.  Noth- 
ing can  save  you — nothing — nothing — nothing.  You  have 
but  a  few  days  before  you  are  condemned — a  week  or  two 
more  of  life.  Is  this  your  last  word  ?' 

'It  is  our  last  word,  Sir,'  said  Alice. 

'She  is  right — Will  is  right,'  cried  Tom.  'Hark  ye — Mr. 
Attorney.  There  is  foul  play  here.  We  may  find  it  out 
yet,  with  the  help  of  God.  Shall  I  put  him  out  of  the  door, 
Alice?' 

'He  will  go  of  his  own  accord,  Tom.  Will  you  leave  us, 
Sir?' 

'Yes,  I  will  leave  you/  He  shook  his  long  forefinger  in 
my  face.  'Ha!  I  leave  you  to  be  hanged:  you  shall  have 
your  miserable  neck  twisted  like  a  chicken,  and  your  last 
thought  shall  be  that  you  threw  your  life  away — no — that  by 
dying  you  give  your  cousin  all/ 

So  he  flung  out  of  the  room  and  left  us  looking  blankly 
at  each  other. 

Then  Jenny  spoke. 

'You  did  well,  Will,  to  preserve  silence  in  the  presence  of 
the  wretch.  We  all  do  well  to  preserve  silence  about  your 
defence.  You  dear  people.  I  have  counted  up  the  cost. 
It  will  be  more  than  at  first  I  thought,  because  the  case  must 
be  made  complete,  so  complete  that  there  can  be  no  doubt  I 
promise  you/  She  took  off  her  domino :  her  face  was  very 
pale :  I  remember  now  that  there  was  on  it  an  unaccustomed 
look  of  nobility  such  as  belongs  to  one  who  takes  a  resolution 


Out  of  the  Frying  Pan  Into  the  Fire    1 9 1 

certain  to  involve  her  in  great  trouble  and  at  the  expense  of 
self-sacrifice  or  martyrdom.  'I  promise  you/  she  said,  'that, 
cost  what  it  may,  the  CASE  SHALL  BE  COMPLETE/ 


CHAPTER  XI 

THE  IMPENDING  TRIAL 

THE  time — the  awful  time — the  day  of  Fate — drew  nearer. 
Despite  the  assurances  both  of  Jenny  and  of  her  attorney 
there  were  moments  when  anticipation  and  doubt  caused 
agonies  unspeakable.  Sometimes  I  have  thought  that  these 
agonies  were  cowardly :  I  should  be  ashamed  of  them :  but 
no  one  knows,  who  has  not  suffered  in  the  same  wa"y,  the 
torture  of  feeling  one's  self  in  the  absolute  power  of  a  crafty 
conspiracy  directed  by  a  man  as  relentless  as  a  weasel  after 
a  rabbit,  or  an  eagle  after  a  heron,  not  out  of  hatred  or  re- 
venge, but  after  money,  the  only  object  of  his  life,  the  real 
spring  of  his  wickedness.  After  my  experience,  I  can  briefly 
say,  as  David  in  his  old  age  said,  'Let  me  fall  into  the  hands 
of  the  Lord,  for  His  mercies  are  great :  but  let  me  not  fall 
into  the  hands  of  man/ 

Presently  it  wanted  but  a  week:  then  six  days,  then  five. 

'You  should  now/  said  Mr.  Dewberry,  'prepare  and  write 
out  your  defence:  that  is  to  say,  your  own  speech  after  the 
trial  is  over.  Take  no  thought  about  the  evidence;  your 
counsel  will  cross-examine  the  witnesses  against  you ;  he  will 
also  examine  those  for  you.  Trust  your  counsel  for  doing 
the  best  with  both.  Heaven  help  two  or  three  of  them  when 
Mr.  Caterham  has  done  with  them/  Mr.  Caterham,  K.  C, 
our  senior  counsel,  was  reported  to  be  the  best  man  at  the 
Old  Bailey  Bar;  with  him  was  Mr.  Stanton,  a  young  man 
still,  quite  young,  but  with  a  brain  of  fire  and  a  front  of 
brass.  'You  must  not  leave  your  defence  to  the  eloquence 
of  the  moment,  which  may  fail  you.  Write  it  down ;  write  it 
plainly,  fully  and  without  passion.  State  who  you  are ;  what 
your  occupation;  what  your  salary;  what  your  rent;  what 
your  daily  habits;  we  shall  have  called  witnesses  to  estab- 
lish all  these  points.  Then  tell  the  Court  exactly  what  you 
have  told  me.  Do  not  try  to  be  eloquent  or  rhetorical.  The 
plain  facts,  plainly  told,  will  impress  the  Jury  and  will  affect 


192  The  Orange  Girl 

the  Judge's  charge,  far  more  than  any  flights  of  eloquence 
on  your  part.  What  the  Judge  wants  is  to  get  at  the  truth. 
Remember  that.  Behind  his  habitual  severity  of  manner 
Mr.  Justice  Parker,  who  will  try  your  case,  is  bent  always 
upon  discovering,  if  possible,  the  truth.  Sit  down,  therefore, 
and  relate  the  facts,  exactly  as  they  were.  Take  care  to 
marshal  them  in  their  best  and  most  convincing  manner. 
Many  a  good  cause  has  been  wasted  by  a  careless  and  igno- 
rant manner  of  presenting  them.  In  your  case  first  relate 
the  facts  as  to  the  alleged  assault.  Next  inform  the  Court 
who  and  what  you  are.  Thirdly  relate  the  circumstances 
of  your  relations  with  Mr.  Probus.  Fourthly  state  the  rea- 
sons why  he  would  profit  by  your  death.  Next,  call  atten- 
tion to  the  conversation  overheard  by  Mr.  Ramage.  Then 
show  that  he  has  on  more  than  one  occasion  threatened  you, 
and  that  he  has  actually  imprisoned  you  in  the  King's  Bench 
in  the  hope  of  moving  you.  I  think  that  you  will  have  a 
very  moving  story  to  tell,  supported,  as  it  will  be,  by  the  evi- 
dence which  has  gone  before.  But  you  have  no  time  to  lose. 
Such  a  statement  must  not  be  put  together  in  a  hurry.  When 
it  is  finished  I  will  read  it  over  and  advise  you.' 

What  was  important  to  me  in  this  advice  was  the  neces- 
sity of  ordering,  or  marshalling  the  facts.  To  one  not  ac- 
customed to  English  Composition  such  a  necessity  never  oc- 
curred, and  without  such  advice  I  might  have  presented  a 
confused  jumble,  a  muddled  array,  of  facts  not  dependent 
one  upon  the  other,  the  importance  of  which  would  have  been 
lost.  However,  armed  with  this  advice,  I  sat  down,  and 
after  drawing  up  a  schedule  or  list  of  divisions,  or  headings, 
or  chapters,  I  set  to  work,  trying  to  keep  out  everything  but 
the  facts.  No  one  will  believe  how  difficult  a  thing  it  is  to 
stick  to  the  mere  facts  and  to  put  in  nothing  more.  Indig- 
nation carried  me  beyond  control  from  time  to  time.  I  went 
out  of  my  way  to  point  to  the  villainy  of  Probus :  I  called 
the  vengeance  of  Heaven  upon  him  and  his  colleagues:  I 
appealed  to  the  unmerited  sufferings  of  my  innocent  wife ; 
to  the  shameful  future  of  my  innocent  offspring — and  to 
other  matters  of  a  personal  kind  all  of  which  were  ruthlessly 
struck  out  by  the  attorney ;  with  the  result  that  I  had  with 
me  when  I  went  into  court  as  plain  and  clear  a  statement  of  a 
case  as  ever  was  presented  by  any  prisoner.  This  statement 
I  read  and  re-read  until  I  knew  it  by  heart:  yet  I  was  ad- 
yised  not  to  trust  to  memory  but  to  take  the  papers  into  court 


Out  of  the  Frying  Pan  Into  the  Fire    193 

and  to  seem  to  read.  All  this  shows  the  care  which  was 
taken  by  our  ever-watchful  attorney,  lest  anything  should 
happen  to  hinder  the  development  of  the  case,  as  he  intended 
and  hoped. 

Among  other  things  he  called  upon  Mr.  Probus,  nomi- 
nally on  account  of  another  matter. 

'I  believe/  he  said,  'that  you  are  the  attorney  of  Mr.  Mat- 
thew Halliday?' 

'I  have  that  honour/ 

'Yes.  I  observed  the  fact  in  reading  an  affidavit  of  yours 
in  connection  with  a  case  in  which  I  am  engaged  for  the 
defence,  the  case  of  Mr.  William  Halliday,  now  in  Newgate 
on  a  charge  of  highway  robbery/ 

'Defence?     He  has,  then,  a  defence?' 

'A  defence?  Certainly  he  has  a  defence.  And  Counsel. 
We  have  engaged  Mr.  Caterham,  K.  C.,  and  Mr.  Stanton, 
both  of  whom  you  probably  know,  as  counsel  for  the  defence. 
My  dear  Sir,  we  have  a  very  good  defence  indeed.  Let  me 
see.  You  arrived  on  the  spot,  I  observe,  after  the  alleged 
attack  was  committed/ 

'Certainly.  My  affidavit  and  my  evidence  before  Sir  John, 
were  only  as  to  the  identity  of  the  robber/ 

'Quite  so.  But  we  need  not  concern  ourselves,  here,  with 
the  defence  of  Mr.  William  Halliday.  I  come  to  speak  about 
the  affairs  of  Mr.  Matthew/ 

'Well,  sir?     What  about  his  affairs?' 

'I  hear  that  they  are  in  a  very  bad  way.  Oh !  Sir,  indeed 
I  do  not  wish  to  ask  any  questions.  I  only  repeat  what  I 
hear  in  the  City.  It  is  there  freely  stated  that  the  Firm  is 
ruined :  that  their  ships  are  sold :  and  that  their  business  is 
gone/ 

'They  are  injurious  and  false  reports/ 

'It  is  possible.  I  hope  so.  Meantime,  however,  I  have 
come  to  communicate  to  you  a  matter  which  perhaps  you 
do  not  know;  but  which  it  is  important  that  you  should 
know.  The  person  chiefly  concerned  gives  me  permission 
to  speak  of  it.  Perhaps  you  do  know  it  already.  Perhaps 
your  client  has  not  concealed  it  from  you.  Do  you,  for  in- 
stance, know  that  Mr.  Matthew  Halliday  is  a  married  man?' 

Mr.  Probus  started.  'Married?'  he  cried.  'Married?  No, 
certainly  not/ 

'It  is  evident  that  you  do  not  know  your  client's  private 
history.  He  has  been  married  two  years  and  more.  He 


194  The  Orange  Girl 

does  not,  however,  cohabit  with  his  wife.  They  are  sepa- 
rated— by  consent.' 

'Matthew  married  ?' 

'They  are  separated,  I  say.  Such  separation,  however, 
does  not  release  the  husband  from  the  liability  of  his  wife's 
debts.' 

'Has  his  wife — has  Mrs.  Matthew — contracted  debts?' 
He  looked  very  uneasy. 

'His  wife — she  is  a  client  of  mine — has  contracted  very 
large  debts.  She  may  possibly  make  an  arrangement  with 
her  creditors.  But  she  may  not.  In  the  latter  case,  she  will 
send  them  to  your  client  who  will  hand  them  over  to  you. 
They  will  demand  payment  without  delay.  Failing  pay- 
ment they  will  take  all  the  steps  that  the  law  permits — also 
without  delay.  That  is  why  I  thought  it  best  to  communicate 
the  facts  to  you.  My  client  authorized  me  to  do  so.' 

Mr.  Probus  made  no  answer.  He  could  not  understand 
what  this  meant. 

'If  it  is  your  interest  to  postpone  bankruptcy,  Mr.  Probus, 
it  may  be  wiser,  for  some  reason  or  other,  to  force  it  on.  I 
only  came  to  tell  you  of  this  danger  which  threatens  your 
client — not  you,  of  course.  But  your  client  whose  wife  is 
mine.' 

Mr.  Probus  made  at  first  no  reply.  He  was  thinking 
what  this  might  mean.  He  was,  of  course,  too  wary  not 
to  perceive  that  the  threat  of  forcing  on  bankruptcy  was 
part  of  the  defence,  though  in  an  indirect  manner. 

'Have  you,'  he  asked  presently,  'any  knowledge  of  the 
amount  of  these  debts?' 

'I  believe  they  amount  to  over  £40,000.' 

Mr.  Probus  groaned  aloud. 

'I  thought  I  would  prepare  your  mind  for  the  blow  which 
may  happen  any  day.  Let  me  see.  The  trial  takes  place 
next  Wednesday — next  Wednesday.  I  dare  say  the  credi- 
tors will  wait  till  after  that  event.  Good-morning,  Mr. 
Probus/ 

He  was  going  away  when  Mr.  Probus  called  him  back. 

'You  are  aware,  sir,  that  I  made  the  prisoner  a  handsome 
offer?' 

'I  have  been  told  that  you  made  a  certain  offer.' 

'I  offered  him  the  very  large  sum  of  £5,000  if  he  would 
sell  his  succession.  If  he  consents  the  principal  witnesses 
in  the  case  shall  not  appear/ 


Out  of  the  Frying  Pan  Into  the  Fire    195 

'Mr.  Probus,  as  the  case  stands  now  I  would  not  take 
£50,000  for  the  price  of  his  chance.' 

Again  he  was  going  away,  and  again  Mr.  Probus  called 
him  back. 

'We  were  speaking/  he  said,  'of  the  defence  of  that  un- 
happy young  man,  Mr.  William  Halliday.  Of  course  I  am 
concerned  in  the  matter  only  as  an  accidental  bystander — 
and,  of  course,  an  old  friend  of  the  family.  There  is  to  be» 
a  defence,  you  say/ 

'Assuredly/ 

'I  have  always  understood  that  the  young  man  was  quite 
poor,  and  that  his  wife's  friends  were  also  quite  poor/ 

'That  is  true.  But  a  man  may  be  quite  poor,  yet  may  have 
friends  who  will  fight  every  point  rather  than  see  the  man 
condemned  to  death — and  on  a  false  charge/ 

'False?' 

'Quite  false,  I  assure  you/ 

'Sir,  you  surprise  me.  To  be  sure  I  did  not  see  the  as- 
sault. Yet  the  evidence  was  most  clear.  Two  gentlemen, 
unknown  to  each  other — another  unknown  to  both  who  wit- 
nessed the  affair — how  can  such  evidence  as  that  be  got 
over  ?' 

'Well,  Mr.  Probus,  it  is  not  for  me  to  say  how  it  will  be 
got  over.  You  are,  I  believe,  giving  evidence  on  what  may  be 
called  a  minor  point ;  you  will  therefore  be  in  the  Court  on 
the  occasion  of  the  Trial.  I  can  say  nothing,  of  course ;  but 
I  should  advise  all  persons  engaged  in  the  case  to  abstain 
from  appearing  if  possible.  I  am  assured  that  things  quite 
unexpected  will  take  place.  Meantime,  to  return  to  the 
point  for  which  I  came  here — advise  your  client  to  prepare 
himself  to  meet  claims  rising  out  of  his  wife's  debts  to  the 
sum  of  many  thousands/ 

'How  many  thousands,  did  you  say?' 

'Forty  thousand,  I  believe/ 

'Good  Heavens,  sir,  what  can  a  woman  be  doing  to  get 
through  such  an  enormous  sum?' 

'Indeed,  I  cannot  inform  you.  It  is  an  age  in  which 
women  call  themselves  the  equals  of  men.  Your  client,  Mr. 
Probus,  has  got  through  a  great  deal  more  than  that  in  the 
same  time,  including,  I  believe,  the  £25,000  which  you  lent 
him  and  which  he  cannot  repay * 

'What  do  you  know  about  these  affairs,  Sir?' 


196  The  Orange  Girl 

'Nothing — nothing.  I  shall  see  you  in  Court  on  the  day 
of  the  Trial,  Mr.  Probus/ 

He  went  away  leaving,  as  he  intended,  his  brother  in  the 
law  in  an  anxious  condition,  and  having  said  nothing  that 
would  lead  him  to  suspect  that  the  conspiracy  was  entirely 
discovered,  and  would  be  laid  open  in  court. 

Then  came  the  last  day  before  the  Trial. 

In  the  afternoon  all  my  friends  were  gathered  together 
in  my  cell.  The  attorney  had  read  for  the  last  time  my 
statement  of  defence. 

.  He  looked  through  it  once  more.  'I  do  not  believe/  he 
said,  'that  the  case  will  get  so  far.  Whatever  happens,  Mr. 
Halliday,  you  will  do  well  to  remember  that  you  have  to 
thank  Madame  here,  and  I  do  not  believe  it  will  be  possible 
for  you  to  thank  her  enough,  until  you  find  out  for  yourself 
the  sacrifices  she  has  made  for  you  and  the  risks  she  is  run- 
ning on  your  behalf.  I  can  but  hope,  Madame,  that  the  sac- 
rifices may  be  made  up  to  you,  and  that  the  risks  may  prove 
illusory/ 

She  smiled,  but  it  was  a  wan  smile.  'Whatever  the  re- 
sult/ she  said,  'believe  me,  Sir,  I  shall  never  regret  either  the 
sacrifices,  if  you  call  them  such,  or  the  risks,  if  by  either  we 
can  defeat  this  most  abominable  conspiracy/ 

'I  was  in  hopes/  said  the  attorney,  'that  Mr.  Probus  might 
be  terrified,  and  so  might  withdraw  at  the  last  moment.  It 
is  easy  to  withdraw.  He  has  only  to  order  the  two  princi- 
pal witnesses  not  to  attend,  when  the  case  falls  to  the  ground. 
As  we  are  now  free  from  all  anxiety/  I  sighed,  'well,  from 
all  but  the  very  natural  anxiety  that  belongs  to  a  prison  and 
to  the  uncertainty  of  the  law,  it  is  better  for  us  that  he  should 
put  in  all  the  witnesses  when  we  can  establish  our  charge  of 
conspiracy.  I  marvel,  indeed,  greatly  that  a  man  so  astute 
should  not  perceive  that  defence,  where  a  King's  Counsel 
and  a  Junior  of  great  repute  are  engaged  must  mean  a  seri- 
ous case,  and  that  a  serious  case  only  means  denial  of  the 
main  charge.  Else  there  would  be  no  defence  at  all.  Well/ 
he  rose — 'I  drink  your  health,  Mr.  Halliday,  in  this  excellent 
Madeira,  and  a  speedy  release  to  you/ 

'And  I,  Will/  said  Tom,  pouring  out  another  glass,  'I,  too, 
drink  a  speedy  release  to  you/ 

So  they  went  away. 

Then  Jenny  got  up.  'Cousin  Will/  she  said  sadly,  'I  have 
done  all  I  could  for  you.  If  the  Black  Jack  knew  to-night 


Out  of  the  Frying  Fan  Into  the  Fire    197 

what  would  be  said  in  Court  to-morrow,  there  would  be  mur- 
der. They  will  all  be  in  Court — every  one — to  hear  the 
splendid  perjuries  of  the  Bishop  and  the  Captain.  Those 
two  worthies  expect  a  brave  day:  indeed,  it  will  be  a  great 
day  for  them,  yet  not  quite  in  the  manner  they  anticipate. 
Well  'tis  the  last  night  in  prison,  Will.  To-morrow  thou 
wilt  be  back  again  in  the  Cottage  beside  the  river.  Happy 
WU1!  Happy  Alice!  As  for  me '  she  sighed  wearily. 

'Why,  Jenny,  as  for  you — what  can  happen  to  you  ?' 

'Nothing  can  happen  to  me/  she  replied,  dolorously. 

'Then,  why  so  sad  ?' 

'Because,  from  the  outset  I  have  foreseen  something  dark 
and  dreadful,  but  I  knew  not  what.  I  see  myself  in  a  strange 
place — but  I  know  not  where.  I  look  around  at  the  places 
which  I  know — and  I  cannot  see  myself.  I  am  neither  at 
Drury  Lane  nor  the  Garden :  nor  am  I  at  Soho  Square.  I 
look  in  the  grave,  but  I  am  not  there.  I  am  to  live — but 
I  know  not  where  or  how.  All  is  to  be  changed ' 

'Jenny,'  Alice  caught  her  hand.  'This  reading  of  the  fu- 
ture. It  is  wicked  since  the  Lord  hath  not  thought  fit  to 
reveal  what  is  to  happen/ 

She  repeated  stupidly,  as  one  who  understands  not,  'Since 
the  Lord — what  Lord? — what  do  you  mean?  Alice,  how 
can  I  help  it?  I  can  read  the  future.  Sometimes  it  is  like 
a  printed  book  to  me.  Well — no  matter.  Farewell,  Will. 
Sleep  sound  to-night.  To-morrow  we  shall  meet  in  the 
Court.  Good-night,  dear  woman/  She  threw  her  arms 
round  Alice,  kissed  her  and  went  away. 

And  as  for  what  passed  between  husband  and  wife — 
what  tender  things  were  said — what  prayers  for  faith — on 
the  eve  of  the  day  of  Life  or  Death :  of  Honour  or  of  Shame ; 
shall  they,  too,  be  written  on  a  page  which  is  open  to  every 
curious  eye  and  to  every  mocking  eye? 


CHAPTER  XII 

THE  TRIAL 

IT  is  a  most  terrible  thing  for  a  man  of  sensibility  to  stand 
in  the  dock  of  the  Old  Bailey  before  the  awful  array  of 
Judges,  Lord  Mayor,  Sheriffs  and  Aldermen.  I  know  very 


198  The  Orange  Girl 

well  that  most  of  the  hardened  wretches  that  stand  there 
have  no  sense  of  terror  and  little  of  anxiety.  For  them  the 
Judge  is  like  that  fabled  Sister  who  cuts  the  thread  of  life: 
they  have  come  to  the  end  of  their  rope:  their  time  is  up: 
they  are  fatalists  in  a  stupid  way:  the  sentence  is  passed: 
they  bear  no  malice  against  the  informer :  the  game  has  been 
played  according  to  the  rules — what  more  can  a  man  desire  ? 
Tyburn  awaits  them.  And  afterwards?  They  neither 
know  nor  do  they  care. 

Early  on  the  morning  of  the  trial,  Mr.  Dewberry  came  to 
see  me.  He  was  cheerful,  and  rubbed  his  hands  with  great 
satisfaction.  'The  case/  he  said,  'is  complete.  Never  was  a 
case  more  complete  or  more  astonishing  as  you  shall  see/ 
He  would  not  explain  further:  he  said  that  walls,  even  in 
Newgate,  have  e'ars :  that  I  must  rely  upon  his  word.  'Sir/ 
he  said,  'so  much  I  will  explain  because  it  may  give  you  ease. 
Never  has  a  man  gone  forth  to  be  tried  for  his  life,  with  a 
greater  confidence  in  the  result  than  you  ought  to  have. 
And,  with  that  assurance  enter  the  Court  with  a  light  heart/ 

They  knocked  off  my  irons  before  going  into  Court. 
Thus  relieved,  I  was  marched  along  a  dismal  passage,  lead- 
ing from  the  prison  to  the  Old  Bailey.  The  Court  was 
crowded,  not  so  much  out  of  compliment  to  me,  but  because 
it  was  bruited  abroad  among  the  rogues  of  St.  Giles's  that 
two  of  their  body  were  that  day  about  to  achieve  greatness. 
They  were,  truly:  but  not  in  the  way  that  was  expected. 
The  crowd,  in  fact,  consisted  chiefly  of  pickpockets  and 
thieves,  with  their  ladies.  And  the  heroes  of  the  day  were 
the  Bishop  and  the  Captain. 

At  first,  a  prisoner  entering  the  court,  sees  nothing.  When 
the  mist  before  his  eyes  clears  away  he  observes  the  jury  be- 
ing sworn  in — one  after  the  other,  they  lift  the  great  chained 
Bible  and  kiss  its  leathern  cover,  black  with  ten  thousand 
kisses,  and  take  their  seats :  he  observes  the  counsel  arrang- 
ing their  papers :  the  officers  of  the  court  standing  about  and 
the  crowd  in  the  gallery  and  about  the  doors :  the  box  for  the 
witnesses — my  heart  sank  when  I  saw  sitting  together  my 
four  enemies,  looking  calm  and  assured,  as  if  there  was  no 
doubt  possible  as  to  the  results.  Nay,  the  Captain  seemed 
unable  to  repress  or  to  conceal  the  pride  he  felt  in  imagina- 
tion, at  thinking  of  the  figure  he  should  cut.  Mr.  Ramage, 
my  own  witness,  I  saw  modestly  sitting  in  a  corner.  Tom 
Shirley,  another  witness  for  me,  if  he  would  prove  of  any 


Out  of  the  Frying  Pan  Into  the  Fire    199 

use,  was  also  there.  As  I  entered  the  dock  Mr.  Probus 
turned  and  his  lips  moved  as  if  he  was  speaking  to  Tom.  I 
could  not  hear  what  he  said,  but  I  knew  it,  without  the  neces- 
sity of  ears.  He  said,  'Sir,  I  saw  you  in  Newgate  three 
weeks  ago.  Your  friend  might  have  saved  his  life,  had  he 
accepted  my  offer.  It  is  now  too  late/  Then  he  turned 
his  hatchet  face  to  me  and  grinned.  Well — he  grins  no 
longer.  Under  the  Dock  stood  Alice,  and  with  her,  closely 
veiled,  Jenny  herself.  They  took  my  hands :  Alice  held  the 
right  and  Jenny  the  left.  'Courage,  my  dear/  said  Alice. 
'It  will  soon  be  over  now/  'It  is  all  over  already/  whis- 
pered Jenny.  'There  is  such  evidence  as  will  astonish  you 
— and  the  whole  world/  She  kissed  my  hand  and  dropped 
a  tear  upon  it.  I  was  to  learn  afterwards  what  she  meant, 
and  what  were  her  own  sacrifices  and  perils  in  bringing  for- 
ward this  evidence. 

Then  Mr.  Dewberry  came  bustling  up.  'That  is  your  law- 
yer, Mr.  Caterham,  King's  Counsel,  now  arranging  his  pa- 
pers. I  was  with  him  yesterday.  He  will  make  a  great  case 
— a  very  great  case — out  of  this.  The  attorney  arranges 
it  all  and  the  higher  branch  gets  the  credit  of  it  all.  Never 
mind.  That  is  your  Junior,  behind,  Mr.  Stanton.  There's 
a  head  for  you :  there's  an  eye.  I  can  always  tell  what  they 
think  of  the  case  by  the  way  they  arrange  their  papers.  The 
Counsel  in  front  of  him  is  Serjeant  Cosins,  King's  Counsel, 
an  able  man — oh,  yes — an  able  man:  he  conducts  the  prose- 
cution. We  shall  open  his  eyes  presently.  He  thinks  he  has 
got  an  ordinary  case  to  conduct.  He  will  see.  He  will  see/ 

Then  the  Judges  came  in :  the  Lord  Mayor,  Mr.  Justice 
Parker,  the  Aldermen,  the  Recorder,  and  the  Sheriffs.  The 
Lord  Mayor  sat  in  the  middle  under  the  great  sword  of  Jus- 
tice :  but  the  case  was  conducted  by  Mr.  Justice  Parker,  who 
sat  on  his  right  hand.  I  looked  along  the  row  of  faces  on 
the  Bench.  They  all  seemed  white,  cold,  stern,  hard  and  un- 
forgiving. Despite  assurances,  my  heart  sank  low. 

I  pass  over  the  reading  of  the  indictment,  my  pleading 
and  the  opening  of  the  case.  The  Prosecutor  said  that  al- 
though it  was  a  most  simple  case,  which  would  not  occupy 
the  attention  of  the  court  very  long,  it  was  at  the  same  time 
one  of  the  most  flagrant  and  audacious  robberies  that  had 
ever  been  brought  before  the  court  of  the  Old  Bailey:  that 
the  facts  were  few:  that  he  was  not  aware  of  any  possible 
line  of  defence;  'Oh  yes/  observed  my  Counsel,  smiling, 


200  The  Orange  Girl 

'a  very  possible  line  of  defence' :  that  he,  for  one,  should  be 
prepared  to  receive  any  line  of  defence  that  could  be  set  up. 
But  he  thought  his  learned  brother  would  not  waste  the  time 
of  the  Court. 

He  then  rehearsed  the  history  of  the  facts  and  proceeded 
to  call  the  witnesses.  First  he  called  Samuel  Carstairs,  Doc- 
tor of  Divinity  (I  do  not  intend  to  set  down  the  whole  of  the 
evidence  given  by  him  or  by  the  others  because  you  already 
know  it). 

The  Doctor,  with  alacrity,  stepped  into  the  witness-box: 
he  was  clean  shaven,  in  a  new  wig,  a  silken  cassock;  snow 
white  bands;  and  a  flowing  gown.  But  that  his  face  was 
red  and  his  neck  swollen  and  his  appearance  fleshy  and  sen- 
sual— things  which  may  sometimes  be  observed  even  among 
the  City  Llergy — he  presented  the  appearance  of  a  prosper- 
ous ecclesiastic.  For  my  own  part  I  can  never  satisfy  myself 
whether  he  was  in  Holy  Orders  at  all.  One  hopes,  for  the 
sake  of  the  Church  that  he  was  not.  After  kissing  the  Tes- 
tament with  fervour,  he  turned  an  unblushing  front  to  the 
Prosecutor.  He  said  that  he  was  a  Clergyman,  a  Doctor  of 
Divinity,  formerly  of  Trinity  College,  Dublin,  and  some  time 
the  holder  of  certain  benefices  in  the  neighbourhood  of  that 
city.  He  deposed  that  on  the  night  in  question  he  was 
making  his  way  through  Leicester  Fields  to  Charing  Cross 
at  the  time  of  nine  in  the  evening  or  thereabouts :  that  sud- 
denly a  young  man  rushed  out  of  some  dark  recess  and  flour- 
ished a  cudgel  over  him,  crying,  'Your  money  or  your  life !' 
That  being  a  man  of  peace,  as  becomes  his  profession,  he 
instantly  complied  with  the  demand  and  handed  over  his 
purse:  that  he  also  cried  out  either  on  account  of  the  ex- 
tremity of  his  fear,  or  for  help :  that  help  came  in  the  shape 
of  a  stranger,  who  felled  the  ruffian:  that  they  called  the 
watch :  carried  the  senseless  robber  to  the  guard-house,  and 
that  the  witness's  purse  was  found  in  his  pocket. 

My  counsel  deferred  cross-examining  this  witness  for  the 
present. 

Next  came  the  Captain.  He,  too,  stood  unabashed  while 
he  poured  out  his  tale  of  perjury.  He  assumed  the  style  and 
title  of  a  Gentleman  from  the  North,  Mr.  Ferdinando  Fen- 
wick:  and  he  entirely  bore  out  the  previous  witness's  evi- 
dence. My  counsel  also  deferred  his  cross-examination  of 
this  witness. 

Mr.  Merridew  was  the  third  witness.    He  followed  suit. 


Out  of  the  Frying  Pan  Into  the  Fire    201 

He  deposed  that  he  was  a  Sheriff's  officer.  He  had  seen 
the  assault  and  the  rescue:  he  had  also  helped  to  carry  the 
robber  to  the  round  house.  This  witness's  cross-examina- 
tion was  also  deferred. 

Mr.  Probus,  attired  in  black  velvet  with  fine  lace  ruffles 
and  neckerchief,  so  that  his  respectable  appearance  could 
not  but  impress  the  jury,  said  that  he  was  passing  the  watch- 
house,  by  accident,  about  midnight,  having  been  summoned 
by  a  client,  when  he  saw  an  unconscious  figure  carried  in: 
that  he  followed  from  motives  of  -humanity  hoping  to  be  of 
use  to  some  fellow  Christian :  that  he  then  perceived,  to  his 
amazement,  that  the  robber  was  none  other  than  the  son  of 
his  old  friend  and  employer  the  late  Sir  Peter  Halliday,  Al- 
derman and  ex-Lord  Mayor :  that  he  saw  the  worthy  clergy- 
man's purse  taken  from  his  pocket  so  that  there  could  be  no 
doubt  of  his  guilt.  He  also  added  that  it  was  four  years 
-and  more  since  Sir  Peter  had  turned  his  son  out  of  doors, 
since  when  he  believed  that  the  young  man  had  earned  a 
precarious  living  by  playing  the  fiddle  to  sailors  and  such 
low  company. 

Then  the  cross-examination  began. 

My  counsel  asked  him  first,  whether  he  knew  any  of  the 
three  preceding  witnesses.  He  did  not :  they  were  strangers 
to  him.  Had  he  never  seen  the  man  Merridew  ?  He  never 
had.  Did  not  Merridew  owe  him  money?  He  did  not. 
He  was  now  attorney  to  Mr.  Matthew  Halliday?  Had  he 
ever  taken  the  man  Merridew  to  Mr.  Halliday's  counting- 
house?  He  had  not.  In  fact,  Mr.  Probus,  you  know  noth- 
ing at  all  about  Mr.  Merridew?'  'Nothing.'  'And  noth- 
ing about  the  other  two  men?'  'Nothing.' 

'I  come  now,  Mr.  Probus,  to  a  question  which  will  aston- 
ish the  Court.  Will  you  tell  me  in  what  way  the  prisoner's 
death  will  benefit  you?' 

'In  no  way.' 

'Oh !  In  no  way.  Come,  Sir,  think  a  little.  Collect  your- 
self, I  pray  you.  You  are  attorney  to  Mr.  Matthew  Halli- 
day. You  have  lent  him  money?'  No  answer.  'Please  an- 
swer my  question.'  No  answer.  'Never  mind,  I  shall  find 
an  answer  from  you  before  long.  Meantime  I  inform  the  Jury 
that  you  have  lent  him  £25,000  on  the  condition  that  he  pays 
15  per  cent,  interest  on  .£40,000,  the  sum  to  be  repaid.  That 
is  the  exact  description  of  the  transaction,  I  believe  ?' 

He  replied  unwillingly,  'If  you  please  to  say  so.' 


202  The  Orange  Girl 

'Very  well.  Now  your  client  has  spent,  or  lost,  the  whole 
of  his  money  and  yours — do  not  deny  the  fact  because  I  am 
going  to  prove  it  presently.  He  cannot  pay  you  one  far- 
thing. In  fact,  before  long  the  firm  of  Halliday  Brothers 
will  become  bankrupt/  (There  was  a  movement  and  a  wis- 
per  among  the  Aldermen  and  Sheriffs  on  the  Bench.)  Is 
this  true  or  not?'  No  answer. 

'My  Lud,  I  press  for  an  answer.  This  is  a  most  important 
question.  I  can  find  an  answer  from  another  witness,  but  I 
must  have  an  answer  from  the  witness  now  in  the  box.' 

'Answer  the  question  immediately,  Sir,'  said  the  Judge. 

'I  do  not  know.' 

'You  do  not  know?  Come,  Sir,  have  you  been  informed, 
or  have  you  not,  by  Mr.  Matthew  Halliday  himself,  of  his 
position?' 

'I  have  not.' 

'You  have  not.  Mark  his  answer,  gentlemen  of  the  Jury. 
Do  not  forget  his  statement.  He  says  that  he  knows  nothing 
and  has  been  told  nothing  of  his  client's  present  unfortunate 
condition.  Let  us  go  on.  The  late  Sir  Peter  Halliday  left 
a  large  sum  of  money — £100,000,  I  believe — to  the  survi- 
vor of  two — either  his  son  or  his  nephew  ?' 

'That  is  true.' 

'If  Halliday  Brothers  becomes  bankrupt,  your  claim  would 
rank  with  those  of  the  other  creditors  ?' 

'I  suppose  so/ 

'In  which  case  you  would  get  little  or  nothing  of  the  £40,- 
ooo.  But  if  the  prisoner  could  be  persuaded  to  sell  his  chance 
of  succession  before  the  declaration  of  bankruptcy,  your 
client  could  raise  money  on  that  succession  out  of  which 
you  could  be  paid  in  full,  if  he  consented?' 

'Yes,  if  he  consented/ 

'You  have  already  made  three  several  attempts  to  make 
him  sell,  have  you  not?' 

'Acting  by  my  client's  instructions/ 

'The  first  time,  when  he  refused,  you  threatened  revenge, 
did  you  not?' 

'I  did  not/ 

'You  then  clapped  him  in  a  debtors'  prison  on  a  trumped- 
up  charge  of  debt?' 

'It  was  a  debt  due  to  an  estate  placed  in  my  hands/ 

'The  prisoner  denied  the  debt:  said  that  the  instrument 
was  given  to  him  by  the  owner,  did  he  not?' 


Out  of  the  Frying  Pan  Into  the  Fire   203 

'Perhaps.' 

'But  you  put  him  in  prison  and  kept  him  there?' 

'I  did,  acting  for  my  clients,  the  executors.' 

'The  next  time  you  called  upon  him  and  offered  to  buy 
his  share  was  about  six  weeks  ago?' 

'It  was,  acting  on  instructions  from  my  client.' 

'He  refused.     You  then  threatened  him  again?' 

'I  did  not.' 

'Two  days  afterwards  the  alleged  robbery  took  place  at 
.which  you  were  an  accidental  observer?' 

'Accidental.' 

'I  said  so — accidental.  Now,  if  this  case  should  prove 
fatal  to  the  prisoner,  on  his  death  your  client,  not  a  bankrupt, 
.would  take  the  whole  of  the  £100,000?' 

'He  would.' 

'You  would  then  expect  to  be  paid?'  No  answer.  'I  say, 
you  would  then  expect  to  be  paid  ?' 

'I  should  hope  to  be.' 

'In  full?' 

'I  should  hope  so.' 

'Then  you  would  be  the  better  by  £40,000  by  the  execu- 
tion of  the  prisoner?' 

'If  you  put  it  so,  I  should/ 

'You  made  a  third  and  last  attempt,  a  few  days  ago,  to 
obtain  his  consent?' 

'I  did,  acting  on  my  client's  instructions.' 

'When  he  was  in  Newgate.  There  were  present  two  other 
friends  of  the  prisoner.  You  then  offered,  if  he  would  sign 
the  document,  to  withdraw  the  principal  witnesses  ?' 

'I  did  not.' 

'I  put  it  in  another  way.  You  promised,  if  he  would  sign, 
that  the  principal  witnesses  should  not  appear  ?' 

'I  did  not.' 

'You  swear  that  you  did  not?' 

'I  swear  that  I  did  not.' 

'You  say  that  you  have  no  power  to  withdraw  witnesses?' 

'I  have  no  power  to  withdraw  witnesses.' 

'You  have  no  power  over  the  case  at  all?' 

'None.' 

Mr.  Caterham  sat  down.     Serjeant  Cosins  stood  up. 

'You  might  be  the  better  by  the  prisoner's  death.  You  are 
not  however  in  any  way  concerned  with  the  case  except  as 
an  accidental  observer?' 


204  The  Orange  Girl 

'Not  in  any  way/ 

'And  you  are  not  in  any  way  acquainted  with  the  wit- 
nesses who  are  chiefly  concerned?' 

'Not  at  all.' 

Mr.  Probus  sat  down. 

Mr.  Caterham  called  again,  the  Rev.  Dr.  Samuel  Car- 
stairs. 

'My  Lud/  he  began,  'I  must  ask  that  none  of  the  wit- 
nesses in  this  case  be  allowed  to  leave  the  court  without  your 
Ludship's  permission/ 

The  Bishop  entered  the  box,  but  with  much  less  assur- 
ance than  he  had  previously  assumed.  And  the  cross-ex- 
amination began. 

I  then  understood  what  Jenny  meant  when  she  talked  of 
making  the  case  complete.  He  swore  again  that  his  name 
was  Carstairs :  that  he  had  held  preferment  in  the  county  of 
Dublin :  he  named,  in  fact,  three  places :  he  had  never  used 
any  other  name :  he  was  not  once  called  Onslow,  at  another 
time  Osborne:  at  another  Oxborough:  he  knew  nothing 
about  these  names :  he  had  never  been  tried  at  York  for 
fraud:  or  at  Winchester  for  embezzlement:  he  had  never 
been  whipped  at  the  cart-tail  at  Portsmouth.  As  these  lies 
ran  out  glibly  I  began  to  take  heart.  I  looked  at  Probus: 
he  was  sitting  on  the  bench,  his  fingers  interlaced,  cold  drops 
of  dew  rising  upon  his  forehead  and  nose.  But  the  Bishop 
held  out  bravely,  that  is,  with  a  brazen  impudence. 

'You  know,  Doctor,  I  believe,  the  Black  Jack?' 

'A  tavern,  is  it?  No,  sir,  I  do  not.  One  of  my  profession 
should  not  be  seen  in  taverns/ 

'Yet  surely  you  know  the  Black  Jack,  close  to  St.  Giles's 
Church  ?' 

'No,  sir,  I  am  a  stranger  in  London/ 

'Do  you  know  the  nickname  of  the  "Bishop"  ?' 

'No/ 

'Oh!  you  never  were  called  the  "Bishop"?' 

'No/ 

'Do  you  know  the  gallant  gentleman  who  rescued  you?' 

'No,  I  do  not/ 

'You  do  not  know  him?  Never  met  him,  I  suppose,  at 
the  Black  Jack?' 

'Never/ 

'Never?  Do  you  know  the  other  witness,  Mr.  Merri- 
flew?' 


Out  of  the  Frying  Pan  Into  the  Fire    205 

'No,  I  do  not/ 

'Where  were  you  staying  for  the  night  when  this  romantic 
incident  happened?' 

For  the  first  time  the  Bishop  hesitated.  'I — I — forget/ 
he  said. 

'Come,  come,  you  cannot  forget  so  simple  a  thing,  you 
know.  Where  were  you  staying?' 

'It  was  in  a  street  off  the  Strand — I  forget  its  name — I 
am  a  stranger  to  this  city/ 

'Well — where  did  you  stay  last  night?' 

'In  the  same  street — I  forget  its  name.' 

'Not  at  the  Black  Jack,  St.  Giles's?' 

He  was  pressed  upon  this  point,  but  nothing  could  be  got 
out  of  him.  He  stuck  to  the  point — he  had  forgotten  the 
name  of  the  street,  and  he  knew  nothing  of  the  Black  Jack. 

So  he  stood  down.  The  Captain  was  called  by  the  name 
he  gave  himself — Ferdinando  Fenwick.  He  said  he  had 
never  been  known  by  any  other  name,  that  he  had  no 
knowledge  of  the  name  of  Tom  Kestever.  He  had  never 
heard  that  name.  Nor  did  he  know  of  any  occasion  on 
which  the  said  Tom  Kestever  had  been  ducked  for  a  pick- 
pocket :  flogged  for  a  rogue :  imprisoned  and  tried  on  a  cap- 
ital charge  for  cattle  lifting.  Oh !  Jenny,  the  case  was  well 
got  up,  truly.  He,  too,  had  never  heard  of  the  Black  Jack, 
and  stoutly  stood  it  out  that  he  was  a  gentleman  of  Cumber- 
land. Asked  what  village  or  town  of  Cumberland,  he  named 
Whitehaven  as  the  place  in  which  he  was  born  and  had  his 
property — to  wit,  five  farms  contiguous  to  the  town  and  two 
or  three  messuages  in  the  town. 

When  this  evidence  was  concluded  a  juryman  rose  and 
asked  permission  of  the  Court  to  put  a  question  to  the  wit- 
ness, which  was  granted  him. 

'Those  farms,'  he  said,  'are  contiguous  to  Whitehaven? 
Yes,  and  you  were  born  in  that  town?  •  What  was  your 
father  by  occupation  ?' 

'He  was  a  draper/ 

'My  lord/  said  the  Juryman,  'I  am  myself  a  native  of 
Whitehaven.  I  am  the  son  of  the  only  draper  in  the  town. 
I  aim  apparently  about  the  same  age  as  the  witness.  I  have 
never  seen  him  in  the  town.  There  is  no  reputable  trades- 
man of  that  name  in  the  town,  or  anywhere  near  it.  There 
are  gentlefolk  of  the  name,  but  in  Northumberland/ 

*I  wish,  Sir/  said  the  Counsel,  'that  I  had  you  in  the  box/ 


206  The  Orange  Girl 

'The  statement  of  a  Juryman  is  not  evidence/  the  Prose- 
cuting Counsel  interposed. 

'I  fear,  my  learned  brother/  said  the  Judge,  'that  when  the 
Jury  retire,  it  will  become  a  strong  piece  of  evidence,  what- 
ever direction  I  may  give  them.' 

The  Serjeant  declined  to  re-examine  this  evidence. 

Then  my  counsel  called  Mr.  Merridew,  who  very  reluc- 
tantly got  into  the  box  again. 

He  denied  solemnly  that  he  knew  either  of  the  preceding 
witnesses.  He  denied  that  he  knew  the  Black  Jack.  He 
owned,  with  a  pretence  at  pride,  that  he  had  frequently 
served  his  country  by  informing  against  rogues  and  had 
taken  the  reward  to  which  he  was  entitled.  He  denied  that 
he  encouraged  young  fellows  to  become  highwaymen  in 
hopes  of  securing  the  higher  reward.  He  denied  that  he 
knew  Mr.  Probus.  He  swore  that  he  should  not  benefit  by 
the  conviction  of  the  prisoner. 

You  observe  that  the  object  of  the  Counsel  was  to  make 
everyone  plunge  deeper  into  the  mire  of  perjury.  His  case 
was  strong  indeed,  or  he  would  not  have  followed  this 
method. 

The  Counsel  then  called  half  a  dozen  witnesses  in  suc- 
cession. They  were  turnkeys  from  York,  Winchester,  Read- 
ing and  Portsmouth  and  other  places.  They  identified  the 
Rev.  Dr.  Samuel  Carstairs,  D.D.,  as  a  person  notoriously 
engaged  in  frauds  for  which  an  educated  person  was  neces- 
sary. He  had  been  imprisoned  for  two  years  at  Winchester 
for  embezzlement:  for  a  twelvemonth  with  a  flogging  at 
York  for  fraud :  he  was  whipped  through  the  High  Street  of 
Portsmouth  and  down  to  Point  and  back  again  for  similar 
practices.  They  also  identified  the  Captain  as  a  rogue  from 
tender  years :  hardly  a  whipping-post  anywhere  but  knew  the 
sound  of  his  voice:  hardly  a  prison  in  which  he  had  not 
passed  some  of  his  time. 

And  now  the  case  looked  brighter.  Everyone  was  inter- 
ested, from  the  Aldermen  to  the  Jury :  it  was  a  case  of  sur- 
prises: only  Serjeant  Cosins  stood  with  his  papers  in  his  hand 
looking  perplexed  and  annoyed.  So  far  there  was  no  doubt 
about  the  two  fellows,  the  authors  of  the  charge,  being  no- 
torious and  arrant  rogues.  A  very  pitiful  figure  they  cut, 
as  they  sat  side  by  side  on  the  witnesses'  bench.  Even  their 
own  friends  in  the  gallery  were  laughing  at  them,  for  the 


Out  of  the  Frying  Pan  Into  the  Fire    207 

admiration  of  the  rogue  is  for  successful  roguery,  while 
for  detected  roguery  he  has  nothing  but  contempt. 

Then  the  Counsel  called  John  Ramage.  He  said  that  he 
was  an  accountant  in  the  counting-house  of  Messrs.  Halli- 
day  Brothers:  that  in  that  capacity  he  knew  the  position  of 
the  House :  that  in  two  years  the  managing  partner,  Mr.  Mat- 
thew Halliday,  had  reduced  the  business  to  a  state  of  insol- 
vency :  that  they  might  become  bankrupts  at  any  moment : 
that  creditors  were  pressing,  and  the  end  could  not  be  far 
off.  He  went  on  to  state  that  he  revealed  the  secrets  of  his 
office  because  he  was  informed  that  the  knowledge  was  nec- 
essary for  the  defence  of  Mr.  William  Halliday,  and  that 
the  safety  and  innocence  of  his  late  master's  only  son  were 
of  far  more  importance  to  him  than  the  credit  of  the  House. 
And  here  the  tears  came  into  his  eyes.  This,  however,  was 
the  least  important  part  of  the  case.  For  he  went  on  to  de- 
pose that  the  position  of  his  desk  near  the  door  of  Mr.  Mat- 
thew's office  enabled  him  to  hear  all  that  went  on :  that  Mr. 
Probus  was  constantly  engaged  with  Mr.  Matthew:  that 
every  day  there  were  complaints  and  quarrels  between  them : 
that  Mr.  Probus  wanted  his  money  back,  and  that  Mr.  Mat- 
thew could  not  pay  him:  that  every  day  they  ended  with 
the  regret  that  they  could  not  touch  this  sum  of  money  wait- 
ing for  the  survivor:  that  every  day  they  sighed  to  think 
what  a  happy  event  it  would  be  for  them  both  if  Mr.  William 
Halliday  were  dead.  That,  one  day,  Mr.  Probus  said  that 
there  were  many  ways  for  even  a  young  man  to  die:  he 
might,  for  instance,  fall  into  the  hands  of  the  law:  to  this 
Mr.  Matthew  gave  no  reply,  but  when  he  was  alone  began 
to  drink.  That  Mr.  Probus  returned  the  next  day  with  Mr. 
Merridew,  who  said  that  the  job  was  easy  and  should  be 
done,  but  he  should  expect  to  stand  in :  he  said  that  the  thing 
would  cost  a  good  deal,  but  that,  for  a  thousand  pounds,  he 
thought  that  Mr.  Will  Halliday's  case  might  be  considered 
certain.  'When  I  heard  this,'  the  witness  said,  'I  hastened 
to  Lambeth,  where  Mr.  Will  was  living  with  his  wife.  I 
could  not  see  him  because  he  was  playing  for  Madame  Val- 
lance's  Assembly.  I  therefore  went  again  to  Lambeth  the 
next  day,  which  was  Sunday,  and  I  told  him  all.  While  I 
was  telling  him,  Mr.  Probus  himself  came.  So  they  put  me 
in  the  kitchen  where  I  could  hear  what  was  said.  Mr.  Pro- 
bus  made  another  effort  to  persuade  Mr.  Will  to  sell  his 
chance  of  succession.  Then  he  went  away  in  a  rage,  threat- 


208  The  Orange  Girl 

ening  things.  So  I  implored  Mr.  Will  to  get  out  of  the  way 
of  the  villains.  He  promised:  but  it  was  too  late.  The 
next  thing  I  hear  is  that  he  has  been  charged  with  highway 
robbery.  Mr.  Will — the  best  of  men!' 

I  now  thought  my  case  was  going  pretty  well. 

There  were,  however,  other  witnesses. 

To  my  amazement  Jenny's  mother  appeared.  She  was 
dressed  up  as  a  most  respectable  widow  with  a  white  cap, 
a  black  dress,  and  a  white  apron.  She  curtseyed  to  the 
Court  and  kissed  the  book  with  a  smack,  as  if  she  enjoyed 
it. 

She  said  that  she  was  a  widow,  and  respectable:  that  she 
kept  the  Black  Jack,  which  was  much  frequented  by  the 
residents  of  St.  Giles's.  The  Counsel  did  not  press  this 
point  but  asked  her  if  she  knew  the  Rev.  Dr.  Carstairs.  She 
replied  that  she  knew  him,  under  other  names,  as  a  fre- 
quenter of  her  house  off  and  on  for  many  years :  that  he  was 
familiarly  known  as  the  'Bishop':  that  she  did  not  inquire 
into  the  trades  of  her  customers,  but  that  it  was  understood 
that  the  Bishop  was  one  of  those  who  use  their  skill  in 
writing  for  various  purposes:  for  threatening  persons  who 
have  been  robbed :  for  offering  stolen  property  for  sale :  for 
demanding  money:  for  forging  documents:  and  other 
branches  of  roguery  demanding  a  knowledge  of  writing. 
She  showed  her  own  knowledge  of  the  business  by  her  enu- 
meration of  the  branches.  She  said,  further,  that  the  gentle- 
man had  slept  at  the  Black  Jack  every  night  for  the  last 
two  months:  that  he  had  a  bed  there,  took  his  meals  there, 
and  carried  on  his  business  there.  As  regards  Mr.  Ferdi- 
nando  Fenwick,  she  knew  him  as  the  'Captain,'  or  as  Tom 
Kestever,  and  she  identified  him  in  the  same  way  and  beyond 
any  power  of  doubt.  As  for  Merridew,  she  knew  him  very 
well:  he  was  a  thief-taker  by  profession:  he  gave  his  man 
a  good  run  and  then  laid  information  against  him:  he  en- 
couraged young  rogues  and  showed  them  how  to  advance 
in  their  profession:  and  she  deposed  that  on  a  certain  day 
Merridew  came  to  the  house  where  the  Bishop  and  the  Cap- 
tain were  drinking  together  and  sat  with  them :  that  all  their 
talk  was  about  getting  a  man  out  of  the  way :  that  the  Bishop 
did  not  like  it,  but  was  told  by  Mr.  Merridew  very  plainly 
that  he  must,  and  that  he  then  assented. 

Jenny's  sister,  Doll,  next  appeared.  She  was  transformed 
into  a  young  and  pleasing  woman  with  a  silver  ring  for 


Out  of  the  Frying  Pan  Into  the  Fire    209 

greater  respectability.  Her  evidence  corroborated  that  of 
her  mother.  But  she  added  an  important  particular,  that 
one  morning  when  there  was  no  one  in  the  place  but  the 
Bishop  and  the  Captain,  Mr.  Probus  came  with  Mr.  Mer- 
ridew  and  sat  conversing  with  those  two  gentlemen  for  a 
long  time. 

Then  the  young  fellow  called  Jack  went  into  the  box.  By 
this  time  the  interest  of  everyone  in  the  court  was  intense, 
because  here  was  the  unrolling  of  a  plot  which  for  audacity 
and  wickedness  was  perhaps  unequalled.  And  the  wretched 
man  Probus,  still  writhing  in  his  seat,  cast  his  eyes  to  the 
door  in  hopes  of  a  chance  at  flight :  in  his  agony  his  wig  was 
pushed  back,  and  the  whole  of  his  head  exposed  to  view.  I 
confess  that  horror  rather  than  revenge  possessed  me. 

The  young  fellow  called  Jack  gave  his  evidence  in  a 
straightforward  way.  He  confessed  that  he  had  run  away 
from  his  native  village  in  consequence  of  an  unfortunate 
love  affair ;  that  he  had  come  up  to  town,  hoping  to  get  em- 
ployment: that  he  had  been  taken  to  the  Black  Jack  by 
someone  who  met  him  in  the  street :  that  he  had  there  been 
introduced  to  Mr.  Merridew,  who  promised  to  find  him 
work :  that  in  fact  he  had  been  employed  by  him  in  shop- 
lifting and  in  small  street  robberies:  his  employer,  he  ex- 
plained, would  go  along  the  street  first  and  make  a  sign 
where  he  could  carry  off  something:  that  he  was  promised 
promotion  to  be  a  highwayman  by  Mr.  Merridew  if  he  should 
deserve  it :  that  he  had  been  told  to  keep  himself  in  readiness 
to  help  in  knocking  a  gentleman  on  the  head :  that  the  thing 
was  talked  over  with  him  by  the  Bishop  and  the  Captain :  that 
at  the  last  moment  they  told  him  they  should  want  none  of 
his  help.  Asked  what  he  should  do  after  giving  this  evi- 
dence, replied  that  if  Mr.  Merridew  got  off,  he  should  have 
to  enlist  in  order  to  save  his  neck,  which  would  be  as  good 
as  gone.  More  he  said,  but  this  was  the  most  important. 

Then  Mr.  Caterham  called  Mr.  Halliday. 

My  unfortunate  cousin  entered  the  witness-box  pale  and 
trembling.  In  answer  to  questions  he  acknowledged  that 
he  had  lost  the  whole  of  his  fortune  and  juined  a  once 
noble  business  in  the  space  of  three  or  four  years.  He  con- 
fessed that  his  bankruptcy  was  inevitable:  that  Probus  had 
been  urgent  with  him  to  get  his  cousin  to  sell  his  chance 
of  succession  in  order  to  raise  money  by  which  he  himself 
might  recover  his  money:  that  he  was  willing  to  do  so  if 


210  The  Orange  Girl 

his  cousin  would  sell:  but  his  cousin  would  not.  He  said 
that  Mr.  Probus  had  come  to  him  stating  that  a  man's  life 
might  be  lost  in  many  ways :  that,  for  instance,  he  might  fall 
into  the  hands  of  the  law :  that  he  had  brought  Mr.  Merri- 
dew,  who  offered  to  arrange  so  that  his  cousin  might  lose 
his  life  in  some  such  way  if  he  were  paid  a  thousand  pounds 
down ;  that  he  would  not  listen  to  such  detestable  overtures ; 
that  he  heard  of  his  cousin's  arrest:  that  he  had  informed 
his  cousin's  attorney  of  the  offer  made  him  by  Probus  and 
Merridew :  but  he  had  neither  paid  nor  promised  a  thousand 
pounds,  or  anything  at  all :  and  that  he  had  never  been  a  con- 
senting party  to  the  plot. 

He  was  allowed  to  stand  down :  he  remained  in  the  court, 
trembling  and  shivering,  as  pitiable  an  object  as  the  wretched 
conspirators  themselves. 

If  there  had  been  interest  in  the  case  before,  judge  what 
it  was  now  in  the  appearance  of  the  next  witness,  for  there 
entered  the  box  none  other  than  Jenny  herself,  the  bewitch- 
ing Jenny.  She  was  all  lace  and  ribbons,  as  beautiful  a 
creature  as  one  could  expect  to  see  anywhere.  She  smiled 
upon  the  Judge  and  upon  the  Lord  Mayor :  she  smiled  upon 
the  Jury :  she  smiled  upon  me,  the  prisoner  in  the  Dock.  In 
answer  to  the  questions  put  to  her,  she  answered,  in  sub- 
stance: 'My  name  is  Jenny  Halliday.  I  am  the  wife  of  the 
last  witness,  Matthew  Halliday.  I  am  an  actress.  I  am 
known  by  my  maiden  name,  Jenny  Wilmot.  As  an  enter- 
tainer, I  am  known  as  Madame  Vallance/  There  was  now 
the  most  breathless  attention  in  Court.  'By  birth,  I  am  the 
daughter  of  the  landlady  of  the  Black  Jack.  It  is  a  place 
of  resort  of  the  residents  of  St.  Giles's.  Most  of  them,  to 
my  certain  knowledge,  probably  all,  are  thieves.  I  some- 
times go  there  to  see  my  mother  and  sister,  not  to  see  the 
frequenters  of  the  place.  Whenever  I  do  go  there,  I  always 
find  the  two  witnesses  who  just  now  called  themselves  Car- 
stairs  and  Fenwick:  at  the  Black  Jack  they  were  always 
called  the  Bishop  and  the  Captain.  I  have  always  heard, 
and  I  understand,  that  they  are  rogues  of  the  deepest  dye. 
The  Bishop  is  not  a  clergyman  at  all :  he  is  so  called  because 
he  dresses  like  a  clergyman  and  can  write  well :  the  Captain 
is  a  highwayman :  most  of  his  fraternity  call  themselves  Cap- 
tains :  he  is  the  son  of  a  butcher  in  Clare  market.  His  name 
is  Tom  Kestever.  Both  are  Mr.  Merridew's  men:  that  is, 
they  have  to  carry  out  whatever  he  orders,  and  they  live  in 


Out  of  the  Frying  Pan  Into  the  Fire    211 

.  perpetual  terror  that  their  time  is  up.  The  last  time  I  was 
in  the  Black  Jack,  Merridew  came  in,  drank  a  glass  or  two 
of  punch  in  a  friendly  way,  and  so  left  them.  When  he  said 
that  he  did  not  know  the  men,  it  was  flat  perjury.  He  was 
continually  in  the  Black  Jack  looking  up  his  people;  ad- 
monishing the  young  and  threatening  the  elders.  Not  a 
rogue  in  London  but  knows  Mr.  Merridew,  and  trembles 
at  the  thought  of  him/ 

Asked  about  Mr.  Probus,  she  said  she  did  not  know  him 
at  all,  save  by  repute.  That  he  constantly  threatened  the 
prisoner  with  consequences  if  he  did  not  consent  to  sell  his 
chance  of  succession:  and  that  she  had  been  present  on  a 
certain  occasion  in  Newgate  when  Mr.  Probus  visited  the 
prisoner  and  offered  him  there  and  then,  if  he  would  sign 
the  document  offered,  that  the  principal  witnesses  should  not 
appear  at  the  Trial,  which  would  thus  fall  through. 

Asked  as  to  her  knowledge  of  the  prisoner,  she  deposed 
that  she  found  him  in  the  King's  Bench  Prison,  sent  there 
through  the  arts  of  Mr.  Probus :  that  she  took  him  out,  pay- 
ing the  detainers :  that  she  then  gave  him  employment  in  her 
orchestra:  that  he  was  a  young  gentleman  of  the  highest 
principle,  married  to  a  wife  of  saintly  conduct  and  character : 
that  he  was  incapable  of  crime — that  he  lived  quietly,  was  not 
in  debt,  and  received  for  his  work  in  the  orchestra  the  sum 
of  thirty  shillings  a  week,  which  was  enough  for  their  mod- 
est household. 

Asked  again  about  her  husband,  she  said  that  she  could 
not  live  with  him,  partly  because  he  was  an  inveterate  gam- 
bler: and  that  to  gratify  this  passion  there  was  nothing  he 
would  not  sell.  That  he  had  gamed  away  a  noble  fortune 
and  ruined  a  noble  business:  that  steps  had  already  been 
taken  to  make  him  bankrupt:  and  that  it  was  to  save  his 
own  money  that  the  man  Probus  had  designed  this  villainy. 

'Call  Thomas  Shirley/  It  was  the  Junior  Counsel  who 
rose. 

Tom  went  into  the  box  and  answered  the  preliminary 
questions.  'Do  you  remember  meeting  Mr.  Probus  in  New- 
gate about  a  month  ago?' 

'I  do/ 

'What  offer  did  he  make?' 

'He  offered  my  brother-in-law  £5,000  down  if  he  would 
sell  his  chance  of  the  succession,  and  further  promised  that 
the  principal  witnesses  should  not  appear/ 


2 1 2  The  Orange  Girl 

'You  swear  that  this  was  his  offer  ?' 

'I  swear  it.' 

The  counsel  looked  at  Serjeant  Cosins  who  shook  his 
head. 

'You  may  sit  down,  Sir/ 

'My  Lud/  said  Mr.  Caterham,  'my  case  is  completed.  I 
have  no  other  evidence  unless  you  direct  me  to  sweep  the 
streets  of  St.  Giles's  and  compel  them  to  come  in/ 

When  all  the  evidence  was  completed  there  was  a  dead 
silence  in  the  Court.  Everybody  was  silent  for  a  space :  the 
faces  of  the  rogues  in  the  gallery  were  white  with  conster- 
nation :  here  were  the  very  secrets  of  their  citadel,  their  home, 
the  Black  Jack,  disclosed,  and  by  the  very  people  of  the 
Black  Jack,  the  landlady  and  her  daughters.  The  Jury 
looked  at  each  other  in  amazement.  Here  was  the  complete 
revelation  of  a  plot  which  for  wickedness  and  audacity 
went  beyond  everything  ever  invented  or  imagined.  What 
would  happen  next  ? 

'Brother  Cosins/  said  the  Judge. 

He  threw  his  papers  on  the  desk.  'My  Lud/  he  said, 
'I  throw  down  my  brief/ 

Then  the  Judge  charged  the  Jury.  'Gentlemen/  he  said, 
'it  has  been  clearly  established — more  clearly  than  lever  be- 
fore experienced,  that  a  wicked — nay  a  most  horrible — 
crime,  designed  by  one  man,  carried  out  by  three  others, 
has  been  perpetrated  against  the  prisoner,  William  Halliday. 
It  is  a  case  in  which  everything  has  been  most  carefully 
prepared :  the  perjury  of  the  witnesses  has  been  established 
beyond  a  doubt  even  though  the  witnesses  have  been  in 
part  taken  from  the  regions  of  St.  Giles's,  and  from  actual 
criminals.  Gentlemen,  there  is  but  one  verdict  possible/ 

They  did  not  leave  the  box :  they  conferred  for  a  moment : 
rose  and  through  their  foreman  pronounced  their  verdict — 
'Not  Guilty/  They  added  a  hope  that  the  conspirators  would 
not  escape. 

'They  shall  not/  said  the  Judge.  'William  Halliday,  the 
verdict  of  the  jury  sets  you  free.  I  am  happy  to  say  that  you 
leave  this  court  with  an  unblemished  character:  and  that 
you  have  the  most  heartfelt  commiseration  of  the  court  for 
your  wholly  undeserved  sufferings  and  anxiety/  Then  the 
Judge  turned  to  the  four.  'I  commit  Eliezer  Probus :  Sam- 
uel Carstairs  alias  what  he  pleases :  the  man  who  calls  him- 


Out  of  the  Frying  Pan  Into  the  Fire    213 

self  Ferdinando  Fenwick:  and  John  Merridew  for  trial  on 
the  charge  of  conspiracy  and  perjury/ 


CHAPTER  XIII 

THE  COMPANY  OF  REVENGE 

THE  case  was  over — I  stepped  out  of  the  Dock :  I  was  free : 
everybody,  including  Mr.  Caterham,  K.C.,  was  shaking  my 
hand:  the  Lord  Mayor  sent  for  me  to  the  Bench  and  shook 
my  hand  warmly:  he  said  that  he  had  known  my  worthy 
father,  Sir  Peter,  and  that  he  rejoiced  that  my  innocence  had 
been  made  as  clear  as  the  noonday :  all  the  Jury  shook  hands 
with  me :  my  cousin  Tom  paid  my  dues  to  the  prison,  with- 
out payment  of  which  even  a  free  man,  proved  innocent, 
must  go  back  to  the  prison  again  and  there  stay  till  he  dis- 
charges them — because  a  gaoler  everywhere  has  a  heart  made 
of  flint.  At  last,  surrounded  by  my  friends  I  went  out  of 
Court.  Outside  in  the  street  there  was  a  crowd  who  shouted 
and  cried  my  name  with  'Death  to  the  Conspirators!'  But 
I  saw  many  who  did  not  shout.  Who  are  they  who  had  no 
sympathy  with  innocence?  They  stood  apart,  with  lowering 
faces.  They  came  down  from  the  public  gallery  where — 
I  was  afterwards  told — the  appearance  in  that  witness-box 
first  of  the  well-known  landlady  of  the  Black  Jack — their 
ancient  friend :  next,  of  her  daughter — also  their  friend  i 
thirdly,  of  the  young  fellow  called  Jack,  one  of  themselves, 
a  rogue  and  the  companion  of  rogues:  and  lastly,  of  the 
woman  of  whom  they  had  been  so  proud,  Jenny  the  actress, 
Jenny  the  Orange  Girl:  Jenny  of  Drury  Lane:  filled  them 
with  dismay  and  rage.  What?  Their  own  people  turn 
against  their  own  friends  ?  The  landlady  of  the  Black  Jack, 
even  the  landlady  of  the  Black  Jack,  that  most  notorious  re- 
ceiver of  stolen  goods,  and  harbourer  of  rogues,  to  give  evi- 
dence against  her  own  customers  ?  Thief  betray  thief  ?  Dog 
bite  dog?  Heard  ever  man  the  like?  Now  you  understand 
the  lowering  and  gloomy  faces.  These  people  whispered  to 
each  other  in  the  Gallery  of  the  Court  House:  they  mur- 
mured to  each  other  outside  on  the  pavement:  when  we 
climbed  into  a  hackney  coach — Jenny — her  mother  and  sis- 
ter— the  young  fellow  called  Jack  and  myself — they  followed 


214  The  Orange  Girl 

us — in  pairs ; — by  fours,  talking  low  and  cursing  below  their 
breath.  After  a  while  they  desisted :  but  one  or  two  of  them 
still  kept  up  with  the  coach. 

I  sent  Alice  home  under  charge  of  Tom.  I  would  get 
home,  I  said,  as  quickly  as  I  could,  after  seeing  Jenny  safely 
at  her  own  house. 

We  arrived  at  the  house  in  Soho  Square.  It  was  empty 
save  for  some  women-servants,  for  there  was  no  enter- 
tainment that  evening.  We  went  into  the  small  room  on 
the  left  and  lit  the  candles. 

It  was  then  about  seven  o'clock  in  the  evening  and  quite 
dark,  as  the  time  of  year  was  November.  Jenny  was  rest- 
less and  excited.  She  went  to  the  window  and  looked  out. 
'The  Square  is  quiet/  she  said.  'How  long  will  it  remain 
quiet  ?'  ' 

The  servants  brought  in  some  supper.  Jenny  took  a 
little  glass  of  wine.  She  then  went  away  and  returned  in 
a  plain  dress  with  a  cloak  and  hood. 

•'I  must  be  ready/  she  said,  'to  set  off  on  my  travels — 
whither?  Mother' — she  turned  to  the  old  lady — 'you  are 
a  witch.  Look  into  the  fire  and  tell  me  what  you  see/ 

The  old  woman  filled  and  drained  a  glass  of  Madeira 
and  turned  her  chair  round.  She  gazed  intently  into  the 
red  coals. 

'I  see/  she  said,  'a  crowd  of  people.  I  see  a  Court.  I 
see  the  condemned  cell.  .  .  .'  She  turned  away.  'No,  Jenny, 
I  will  look  no  more.  'Twas  thus  I  looked  in  the  fire  before 
thy  father  was  taken.  Thus  and  thus  did  I  see.  I  will  look 
no  longer/ 

'Well/  said  Doll,  'what  will  they  do  next?  They  know 
now  where  you  live,  Madame  Vallance/ 

The  old  woman  sat  down  and  sighed  heavily.  'The  Black 
Jack!'  she  murmured.  'We  shall  never  see  it  again/ 

Jenny  was  quiet  and  grave.  'We  have  beaten  them/  she 
said.  'They  never  suspected  that  so  complete  a  beating  was 
in  store  for  them.  Now  comes  our  turn — my  turn  rather/ 

'Your  turn,  Jenny  ?' 

'Yes,  Will,  my  turn.  Do  you  suppose  they  will  forgive 
us?  Why,  we  have  given  evidence  against  our  own  people. 
All  St.  Giles's  trusted  my  mother  and  sister — Could  one 
suspect  the  Black  Jack?  Why,  because  I  was  a  daughter 
of  the  house,  all  St.  Giles's  trusted  me — and  we  have  be- 
trayed them !  There  will  be  revenge  and  that  quickly/ 


Out  of  the  Frying  Pan  Into  the  Fire    2 1 5 

Doll  nodded  expressively.    Her  mother  groaned. 

'What  kind  of  revenge?' 

Doll  nodded  her  head  again  and  drew  a  long  breath.  Her 
mother  groaned  again. 

'I  do  not  know,  yet.  Listen,  Will.  The  people  know  very 
well  that  this  case  has  been  got  up  by  myself.  I  found  out, 
by  my  mother's  assistance,  those  facts  about  the  trials  and 
floggings  and  imprisonments:  I  went  into  the  country  and 
secured  the  evidence.  I  brought  up  the  gaolers  to  testify 
to  the  men's  identity.  I  even  went  to  my  husband  and 
promised — yes,  I  swore — that  I  would  put  him  into  the 
conspiracy  as  well  as  the  other  four  if  he  did  not  give  evi- 
dence without  saying  a  word  to  Probus.  And  then  I  bought 
my  mother  out.' 

'You  bought  out  your  mother?' 

'  'Twas  as  sweet  a  business,  Sir,'  the  old  woman  inter- 
rupted, 'as  you  ever  saw.  A  matter  of  three  pounds  a  day 
takings  and  two  pounds  a  day  profit/ 

'I  bought  her  out/  said  Jenny.  'I  also  compensated  her 
for  the  contents  of  her  vaults/ 

'Ah !'  sighed  the  old  woman.    'There  were  treasures !' 

'The  Black  Jack  is  shut  up.  When  the  people  go  there 
this  evening ' —  again  Doll  nodded  — '  they  will  find  it  closed 
—  and  they  will  wreck  the  place/ 

'  And  drink  up  all  that's  left/  said  Doll. 

'  Let  us  prevent  murder.  Jack,  you  will  find  it  best  for 
your  health  to  get  at  far  as  possible  out  of  London.  Take 
my  mother  and  sister  to  one  of  the  taverns  in  the  Borough. 
There's  a  waggon  or  a  caravan  starts  every  morning  for 
some  country  place  or  other;  never  mind  where.  Go  with 
them,  Jack:  stay  with  them  for  a  while  till  they  are  settled. 
Mother,  you  won't  be  happy  unless  you  can  have  a  tavern 
somewhere.  If  you  can  find  one,  Jack  will  do  for  you. 
There  you  will  be  safe,  I  think.  St.  Giles's  doesn't  contain 
any  of  our  people.  But  in  London  you  will  be  murdered  — 
you  and  Doll,  too  —  for  sure  and  certain/ 

*  For  sure  and  certain/  said  Doll,  grimly. 

Jenny  gave  her  mother  more  money.  'That  will  carry 
you  into  the  country/  she  said.  'You  can  let  me  know, 
somehow,  where  you  are.  But  take  care  not  to  let  anyone 
know  who  would  tell  the  people  here.  The  gipsies  are 
your  best  friends,  not  the  thieves/ 


2i 6  The  Orange  Girl 

I  asked  her  if  it  was  really  necessary  to  make  all  these 
preparations. 

'You  don't  know  these  people,  Will.  I  do.  The  one 
thing  to  which  they  cling  is  their  safety  from  the  law  so 
long  as.  they  are  among  themselves.  There  will  be  wild 
work  this  evening.  As  for  me  I  have  under  my  dress  all 
my  money  and  all  my  jewels.  I  am  ready  for  flight.' 

'  Why,  Jenny,  you  don't  think  they  will  attack  you 
here?'' 

'  I  do,  indeed.  There  is  nothing  more  likely.  Did  you 
observe  a  woman  running  along  Holborn  beside  the  coach? 
I  know  that  woman.  She  is  the  Captain's  girl.  Revenge 
was  written  on  her  face  —  easy  to  read  —  revenge  —  revenge. 
She  stood  beside  the  doorstep  when  we  came  in.  She 
marked  the  house.  She  has  gone  back  to  St.  Giles's  to 
tell  them  where  we  can  be  found  this  evening.  But  they 
learned  that  fact  in  Court.  Oh !  They  will  come  presently/ 

'  Well,  Jenny,  let  us  escape  while  we  can.' 

'  There  are  many  ways  of  escape,'  she  said.  '  There  is 
no  hurry.  We  can  pass  over  the  roof  of  the  next  house 
and  so  into  the  garrets  of  the  house  beyond.  I  have  proved 

this  way  of  escape  Oh!  Will,  I  counted  the  cost 

beforehand.  Or  there  is  the  back  door  which  opens  on 
Hog  Lane.  We  can  get  out  that  way.  I  am  sure  they 
will  not  think  of  the  back  door.  Or  it  is  easy  to  climb 
over  the  garden  wall  into  the  next  house:  there  are  plenty 
of  ways.  I  am  not  afraid  about  our  escape  —  if  we  can 
keep  them  out  for  a  few  minutes.  But,  Jack,  you  had 
better  take  my  mother  and  sister  away  at  once.' 

'  No,'  said  Jack,  stoutly.  '  Where  you  are,  Madame, 
there  I  am.' 

'  You  are  a  fool,  Jack,'  she  replied  with  her  sweet  smile, 
which  made  him  more  foolish  still.  '  They  will  murder  you 
if  they  can.' 

'  They  shan't  murder  you,  then,'  the  lad  replied,  clutching 
his  cudgel. 

By  the  time  we  finished  supper  and  held  this  discourse 
it  was  close  upon  eight. 

'  Will,'  said  Jenny,  '  you  and  Jack  had  better  barricade 
the  door.  It  is  a  strong  door  but  even  oak  will  give  way. 
Take  the  card-tables  and  pile  them  up.' 

The  card-tables  were  thin  slight  things  with  curved  legs 
all  gilt  and  lacquer.  But  the  long  table  was  a  heavy  mahog- 


Out  of  the  Frying  Pan  Into  the  Fire    2 1 7 

any  thing.  We  took  out  some  of  the  pieces  by  which  it 
was  lengthened  and  closed  it  up.  Then  we  carried  it  out 
to  the  hall  and  placed  it  against  the  door:  the  length  of 
the  door  filled  the  breadth  of  the  hall  and  jammed  in  the 
boards  until  it  seemed  as  if  it  would  bear  any  amount  of 
pressure  from  without.  We  piled  the  smaller  tables  one 
above  the  other  behind  the  large  table:  if  the  mob  did  get 
in,  they  would  be  encumbered  for  awhile  among  the  legs 
of  so  many  tables.  This  was  the  only  attempt  we  could  make 
at  fortifying  the  house:  the  lower  windows  were  protected 
by  the  iron  railings  outside. 

'Will,'  said  Jenny,  'we  have  made  the  door  safe.  But 
Lord!  what  is  to  prevent  their  breaking  down  the  railings 
and  entering  by  the  area?  Or  why  should  they  not  bring 
a  ladder  and  force  their  way  at  the  first  floor?' 

'Would  they  be  so  determined?' 

'  They  scent  blood.  They  are  like  the  carrion  crow.  They 
mean  blood  and  pillage.  The  latter  they  will  have.  Not  the 
former.' 

At  this  point  we  heard  a  low  grumbling  noise  in  the 
distance,  which  became  the  roar  of  many  voices. 

'They  are  already  at  the  Black  Jack,'  said  Jenny.  'I 
should  like  to  see  what  they  are  doing.  Come  with  me, 
Will.  It  is  too  dark  for  anyone  to  recognise  me,  and  there 
will  be  a  great  crowd.  All  St.  Giles's  will  be  out  to  see  the 
wreck  of  the  Black  Jack.' 

She  drew  her  hood  over  her  head  which  in  a  measure  hid 
her  face,  and  taking  my  hand,  she  led  me  through  the  garden 
and  so  out  by  the  back  door  into  Hog  Lane.  The  place, 
always  quiet,  was  deserted  and,  besides,  was  nearly  pitch 
dark,  having  no  lamps  in  it. 

Jenny's  house  —  the  Assembly  Rooms  of  Soho  Square  — 
stood  at  the  corner  of  Sutton  Street,  and  with  its  gardens 
extended  back  into  Hog  Lane.  Nearly  opposite  Sutton 
Street,  a  little  lower  down,  the  short  street  called  Denmark 
Street  ran  from  Hog  Lane  into  St.  Giles's  High  Street 
opposite  the  Church.  The  Black  Jack  stood  opposite  to 
the  Church. 

When  we  got  to  Denmark  Street  we  took  the  north 
side,  because  there  were  fewer  people  there.  Yet  the 
crowd  was  gathering  fast.  We  stood  at  the  corner  of  the 
street  at  the  East  and  where  we  could  see  what  was  going 


21 8  The  Orange  Girl 

on  and  be  ready  to  escape  as  quickly  as  possible  in  case  of 
necessity. 

A  company  of  men  with  whom  were  a  good  many  women 
and  a  few  boys,  were  besieging  the  dark  and  deserted  Black 
Jack.  They  were  a  company  apart  acting  by  themselves 
without  any  assistance  from  the  crowd,  which  looked  on 
approvingly  and  applauded.  They  neither  asked  for,  nor 
would  they  accept,  assistance.  If  any  man  from  the  outside 
offered  to  join  them,  he  was  roughly  ordered  back.  '  It  is 
their  revenge,  Will/  said  Jenny.  "They  will  have  no  one 
with  them  to  join  in  their  own  business.'  Their  resolution 
and  the  quiet  way  with  which  they  acted  —  for  the  roars 
and  shouting  we  heard  did  not  proceed  from  the  company 
of  revenge  but  from  the  crowd  that  followed  them  —  struck 
one  with  terror  as  if  we  were  contemplating  the  irresistible 
decrees  of  Fate.  They  battered  at  the  doors:  as  no  one 
answered,  they  broke  in  the  doors;  but  first  with  a  volley 
of  stones  they  broke  every  window  in  the  house. 

'Poor  mother!'  said  Jenny.  '  'Twould  break  her  heart, 
But  she  will  lose  nothing.  I  bought  her  out.  It  is  the 
landlord  who  will  suffer.  Now  they  have  found  candles: 
they  light  up;  see,  they  are  going  all  over  the  house  in 
search  of  the  landlady.'  We  saw  lights  in  the  rooms  one 
after  the  other.  'They  will  not  find  her:  nor  her  money: 
nor  anything  that  is  valuable.  It  is  all  gone,  gentlemen: 
all  provided  for  and  stowed  away  in  a  safer  place.  This 
is  not  a  house  where  a  woman  who  values  her  throat  should 
be  found,  after  to-day's  work.  See  —  now,  they  have  made 
up  their  minds  that  no  one  is  left  in  the  house.  What 
next?  Will  they  set  fire  to  it?' 

No:  they  did  not  set  fire  to  the  house.  They  proceeded 
to  break  up  everything:  all  the  furniture:  the  beds,  chairs 
and  tables  and  to  throw  fragments  out  of  windows  into  the 
open  space  below  where  some  of  them  collected  everything 
and  made  a  bonfire.  When  the  house  was  emptied  they 
began  to  bring  out  the  bottles  and  to  haul  up  the  casks  out 
of  the  cellars :  upon  this  there  was  a  rush  of  the  crowd  from 
the  outside:  strange  as  it  may  appear  the  company  of 
revenge  were  going  to  break  the  bottles  and  to  set  the  casks 
running.  But  the  mob  rushed  in:  there  was  fighting  for  a 
few  minutes:  someone  blew  a  whistle  and  the  rioters  drew 
apart,  and  stood  together  before  the  house.  Then  one  of 
^  their  leader^  spoke. 


Out  of  the  Frying  Pan  Into  the  Fire    219 

'  This  is  the  revenge  of  St.  Giles's  on  the  landlady  of  the 
Black  Jack.  Drink  up  all  her  casks  and  all  her  bottles,  and 
be  damned  to  ye ! ' 

The  people  that  rushed  upon  the  casks  were  like  ravenous 
beasts  of  prey :  you  would  have  thought  that  they  had  never 
had  their  fill  of  strong  drink  before:  indeed  for  such  people 
it  is  impossible  to  have  their  fill  of  strong  drink  unless  insen- 
sibility means  satiety.  They  set  the  casks  running:  they 
made  cups  of  their  hands:  they  drank  with  their  mouths 
from  the  taps :  they  filled  empty  bottles :  they  fought  for  the 
full  bottles:  the  place  was  covered  with  broken  glass:  their 
faces  were  bleeding  with  cuts  from  broken  bottles :  the  bon- 
fire lifted  its  fierce  flame  hissing  and  roaring:  at  the  open 
windows  of  houses  hard-by  women  looked  on,  shrieking 
and  applauding:  some,  within  the  railings  of  the  Church, 
looked  on  as  from  a  place  of  safety :  as  the  flames  lit  up  their 
pale  faces,  they  might  have  been  the  ghosts  of  the  dead, 
called  out  of  their  quiet  graves  to  see  what  was  going  on. 

'It  is  not  their  intention  to  burn  down  the  Black  Jack/ 
said  Jenny.  '  Then  there  will  be  a  new  landlady,  and  the 
Thieves'  Kitchen  will  go  on  again.' 

The  leader  of  the  Company  blew  his  whistle,  and  the  men 
fell  into  some  kind  of  line. 

'  My  turn  now,'  said  Jenny.  '  Let  us  fly,  Will.  Let  us 
fly  back  again/ 

We  ran  down  Denmark  Street  into  the  quiet,  dark  Hog's 
Lane  before  the  Company  reached  the  place.  We  ran 
through  the  garden  door  and  locked  it.  Then  we  went  back 
to  the  house.  The  old  woman  was  half  drunk  by  this  time 
and  half  asleep.  Doll  was  sitting  upright,  waiting.  Jack 
stood  by  the  door. 

'They  are  coming,'  said  Jenny.  'They  have  sacked  the 
Black  Jack,  Doll.  They  would  have  murdered  you  had 
you  been  in  the  house:  they  have  broken  all  the  furniture 
and  made  a  bonfire  of  it:  and  they  have  brought  out  all 
the  liquor.  The  people  are  drinking  it  up  now  —  beer  and 
rum  and  gin  —  and  wine.  Well,  you  have  lost  nothing, 
Doll  —  nothing  at  all.  Now  they  are  coming  here.'  She 
rang  the  bell,  and  called  the  servants.  There  were  six  of 
them.  'There  is  a  mob  on  their  way  to  this  house,'  she 
told  them.  'They  are  going  to  wreck  the  place  and  to 
murder  me,  if  they  can.  You  had  better  get  out  of  the 
house  as  soon  as  you  can.  Put  together  all  that  you  can 


220  The  Orange  Girl 

carry,  and  go  out  of  the  back  way.  You  can  go  to  one  of 
the  inns  in  Holborn  for  the  night:  if  any  of  you  have  the 
courage  to  venture  through  the  streets  of  Soho,  you  might 
go  to  the  Horse  Guards  and  call  the  soldiers  to  save  the 
house.  Now  be  quick.  To-morrow  I  will  pay  you  your 
wages/ 

The  women  looked  astonished,  as  well  they  might.  What 
sort  of  company  was  Madame  keeping?  There  was  the  old 
woman  bemused  with  drink:  there  was  the  young  country 
man:  who  were  they?  What  did  it  mean? 

'The  mob  are  coming  to-night,  Madame ?' 

'  They  are  coming  now.  They  will  be  here  in  a  few  min- 
utes. If  you  would  escape,  go  put  your  things  together  and 
fly  by  the  garden  door.' 

They  looked  at  each  other:  without  a  word  they  retired: 
and  I  suppose  they  got  away  immediately,  because  we  saw 
no  more  of  them. 

And  then  we  heard  a  steady  tramp  of  feet  along  Sutton 
Street. 

'They  are  here/  said  Jenny. 

We  heard  the  feet,  but  there  was  no  shouting.  They 
marched  in  a  silence  which  was  more  threatening  than  any 
noise.  I  closed  the  wooden  shutters  of  the  room.  It  was 
as  well  not  to  show  any  lights. 

'  I  suppose/  said  Doll,  '  that  you  will  give  us  time  to 
escape.  Otherwise  we  shall  all  four  have  our  throats  cut, 
and  perhaps  this  gentleman  too,  for  whom  you've  taken 
all  this  trouble  —  and  him  with  a  wife  of  his  own.  He'd 
better  go  back  to  her/ 

'  Yes,  Doll/  Jenny  replied  meekly,  without  replying  to  the 
suggestion.  '  You  shall  have  time  to  escape/ 

They  drew  up,  apparently  in  very  good  order  before  the 
house,  without  any  shouting,  because  most  of  the  crowd 
that  had  followed  them  to  the  Black  Jack  were  still  on  the 
spot  drinking  what  they  could  get  in  the  general  scramble. 
There  were  some,  however,  who  came  with  them  and  hung 
outside  and  behind  the  company  of  revenge  who  began  to 
assemble  and  to  shout  '  Huzzah '  after  the  way  of  the  Lon- 
doners. But  I  believe  they  knew  not  what  was  intended 
save  that  it  was  revenge  of  some  kind:  there  would  most 
certainly  be  the  breaking  of  windows  and  the  smashing  of 
doors:  there  would  be  the  pleasant  spectacle  of  revenge 
with  more  bonfires  of  broken  furniture:  perhaps  more  casks 


Out  of  the  Frying  Pan  Into  the  Fire    221 

and  bottles  of  strong  drink :  in  all  probability  women  would 
be  turned  out  into  the  street  with  every  kind  of  insult  and 
ill-usage,  as  had  happened,  indeed,  only  a  week  before  in  the 
Strand  when  a  company  of  sailors  wrecked  a  house  and 
turned  the  women  out  of  doors  with  blows  and  curses. 

First  they  knocked  loudly  at  the  door,  shouting  for  the 
door  to  be  opened  or  it  would  be  the  worse  for  everybody 
inside.  Then  they  pushed  the  door  which  yielded  not. 

'  They  will  not  force  the  door  easily/  said  Jenny.  '  Who 
will  run  downstairs  and  see  that  the  area  door  is  secure?' 

I  volunteered  for  this  duty.  The  kitchen  windows  were 
provided  with  strong  iron  bars  which  would  keep  the  people 
off  for  a  time:  the  area  door  was  strong  and  was  barred 
within:  for  further  precaution  I  locked  and  barred  the  kit- 
chen door  and  a  strong  door  at  the  head  of  the  staircase :  we 
should  thus  gain  time. 

Crash  —  smash  —  crash !  Were  you  ever  in  a  house  while 
the  mob  outside  were  breaking  the  windows?  Perhaps 
not.  'Tis  like  a  field  of  battle  with  the  rattle  of  musquetry. 
At  one  moment  half  the  windows  in  the  house  were  broken: 
at  the  next  moment  the  other  half  went :  and  still  crash  — 
crash  —  the  stones  flew  into  the  windows  tearing  out  what 
little  glass  remained. 

Then  there  was  silence  again. 

'  Our  time  is  nearly  up,'  said  Jenny.  '  Doll,  wake  up 
mother.  Tie  her  hat  under  her  chin,  wrap  her  handker- 
chief round  her  neck  —  so.  What  will  they  do  next?  Jack, 
are  you  afraid  to  reconnoitre?  Go  up  to  the  first  floor,  and 
look  out  of  window/ 

I  went  with  him.  The  stones  were  still  flying  thickly 
through  the  windows.  We  made  our  way  along  the  wall 
till  we  came  to  the  window.  Then  we  went  on  hands  and 
knees  and  crept  to  the  window.  I  wrapped  one  hand  in  a 
curtain  and  held  it  before  my  face  while  I  looked  out. 

They  were  lighting  torches  and  conferring  together.  By 
the  torchlight  I  could  make  out  their  faces.  They  were  of 
the.  type  which  I  had  had  a  recent  opportunity  of  studying 
in  Newgate:  the  type  which  means  both  the  hunter  and  the 
hunted.  It  is  a  cruel  and  hard  type:  a  relentless  type:  the 
faces  all  had  the  same  expression  —  it  meant  '  Revenge/ 
'  We  have  been  betrayed/  said  the  faces,  '  by  our  friends,  by 
the  very  people  we  trusted:  we  will  have  revenge.  As  we 
have  sacked  the  Black  Jack,  so  we  will  sack  the  Assembly 


222  The  Orange  Girl 

Rooms.  As  we  would  have  killed  the  landlady  of  the  Black 
Jack:  so  we  will  kill  her  daughter,  the  Orange  Girl,  if  we 
find  her.'  That  is  what  the  faces  seemed  to  say. 

They  were  conferring  what  to  do  next.  One  of  them  I 
could  see,  advocated  breaking  down  the  iron  railings:  but 
they  had  no  instruments:  another  wanted  to  use  a  batter- 
ing ram  against  the  front  door*  but  they  had  no  battering- 
ram  :  a  third  proposed  a  ladder  and  entering  by  the  first  floor 
windows.  But  they  had  no  ladder. 

While  they  were  thus  debating  a  man  came  into  the 
Square  who  brought  a  ladder  for  them.  There  was  no  fur- 
ther hesitation.  '  Come,  Jack/  I  said.  '  There  is  no  time 
to  be  lost:  we  must  get  away  as  quickly  as  possible.' 

'  You  go  on/  said  Jack,  '  I  will  follow.' 

He  waited.  The  ladder  was  raised  to  the  window  at 
which  he  watched.  A  fellow  ran  up  quickly.  Jack  sprang 
to  his  feet,  threw  up  the  sash  and  hurled  him  headlong  off 
the  ladder.  The  poor  wretch  fell  on  the  spikes.  He 
groaned  but  only  once.  He  was  killed.  There  was  silence 
for  a  moment.  Then  there  arose  a  mighty  scream  —  I  say 
it  was  like  the  screaming  of  a  woman.  The  mob  had  tasted 
blood.  It  was  their  own  —  but  it  was  blood.  They  yelled 
and  roared.  Some  of  them  ran  to  hold  the  ladder  while  a 
dozen  men  ran  up.  Jack  prudently  retired,  but  locked  the 
door  behind  him. 

'  I  believe  I  have  killed  him/  he  said  quickly.  '  The  one 
who  ran  up  the  ladder.  I  think  he  fell  on  the  spikes/ 

'  Come/  said  Jenny.  '  We  must  go  at  once  if  we  mean 
to  go  at  all.  Wake  up  mother  again,  Doll.  Farewell  to 
my  greatness.  Will,  I  grudge  not  any  cost  —  remember  — 
whatever  it  is.  Take  me  with  you,  to  your  own  home  for 
awhile,  till  I  am  able  to  look  round  again.  These  devils! 
they  are  overhead,  I  hear  them  falling  over  the  furniture. 
Pray  that  they  break  their  shins.  Come,  everybody/ 

She  blew  out  the  candles  and  led  the  way.  The  old 
woman  half  awake  was  led  out  by  Jack  and  Doll.  I  fol- 
lowed last.  As  we  passed  out  into  the  garden,  we  could 
hear  the  cursing  of  the  fellows  overhead  and  the  smashing 
of  the  door  which  Jack  had  locked. 

In  Sutton  Street,  over  the  garden  wall,  everything  seemed 
quiet:  that  is,  there  were  no  footsteps  as  of  a  crowd.  Yet 
in  the  Square  the  crowd  roared  and  yelled,  and  from 
St.  Giles's  was  still  heard  the  clamour  of  the- people  fight- 


Out  of  the  Frying  Pan  Into  the  Fire    223 

ing  over  the  drink.  We  looked  out  of  the  garden  door 
cautiously.  No  one  was  in  Hog  Lane,  which  was  as 
deserted  as  a  city  in  the  Desert.  We  closed  the  door  and 
turned  to  the  right,  and  so  making  our  way  by  streets 
which  I  knew  well,  either  by  day  or  by  night,  we  got  to 
St.  Martin's  Lane  and  then  to  Charing  Cross  where  we 
found  a  hackney  coach. 

'  Jenny/  I  said  in  the  coach,  taking  her  hand.  '  The  even- 
ing spoils  the  day.  All  this  you  have  suffered  for  my  sake. 
What  can  I  say?  What  can  I  feel? ' 

'  Oh !  Will,  what  are  a  few  sticks  of  furniture  and  curtains 
compared  to  your  safety  and  to  Alice's  happiness?  I  care 
not  a  straw.  I  am  ruined,  it  is  true;  but  —  for  the  first 
time  in  my  life,  I  am  thankful  for  it  —  I  am  a  married 
woman.  My  debts  will  all  be  transferred  to  Matthew. 
Will!  Think  of  it!  The  first  effect  of  the  victory  will  be 
to  make  Matthew  a  bankrupt  at  once.  After  what  he  owned 
in  Court,  after  he  receives  the  news  of  my  debts:  there  can 
be  no  delay.  Henceforth,  my  dear  Will,  you  will  be  safe 
from  Mr.  Probus/ 

I  was,  indeed,  to  be  safe  from  him,  but  in  a  way  which 
she  could  not  expect. 

'  Meantime,'  she  added,  with  a  sigh,  '  they  have  not  done 
with  me,  yet/ 

'  Why,  what  further  harm  can  they  do  you? ' 

'  I  know  not.  You  asked  the  same  question  before. 
There  is  no  end  to  the  ways  of  a  revengeful  spirit.  They  will 
murder  me,  perhaps :  or  they  will  contrive  some  other  way/ 

'  Then  go  out  of  their  reach/ 

'  The  only  place  of  safety  for  me  is  with  my  own  folks. 
I  should  be  safe  in  a  gipsy  camp.  They  have  their  camps 
everywhere,  but  I  do  not  want  to  live  with  them.  No, 
Will.  I  shall  remain.  After  all,  the  revenge  of  people  like 
these  soon  passes  away.  They  will  wreck  my  house  to-night. 
That  very  likely  will  seem  to  them  enough.  I  should  have 
thought  so,  but  for  the  things  that  mother  saw  in  the  coals. 
She  is  a  witch,  indeed.  I  say,  mother,  you  are  a  proper 
witch/  But  the  good  lady  was  fast  asleep. 

We  left  her  with  her  daughter  Doll  and  the  young  fellow 
they  called  Jack,  at  the  White  Hart  Inn.  It  appeared  that 
a  waggon  was  going  on  in  the  morning  to  Horsham  in  Sus- 
sex. They  might  as  well  stay  at  Horsham  for  a  time  as 
anywhere  else.  There  was  very  little  fear  that  the  St,  Giles's 


224  The  Orange  Girl 

company  of  revenge  would  make  any  further  inquiries  about 
them.  So  they  left  us  and  I  saw  the  pair  no  more  —  and 
cannot  tell  you  what  became  of  them  in  the  end.  As  for 
the  young  fellow,  you  will  hear  more  about  him.  The  hack- 
ney coach  took  us  to  our  cottage  on  the  Bank  where,  after 
so  many  emotions  and  surprises,  I,  for  one,  slept  well. 

Let  us  return  to  the  house  in  the  Square.  The  rioters 
finding  no  one  within,  quickly  pulled  away  the  barricade 
of  the  front  door  and  threw  it  open.  Then  the  work  of 
wrecking  the  place  began.  When  you  remember  that  sup- 
per was  sometimes  provided  for  two  thousand  people,  you 
will  understand  the  prodigious  quantity  of  plates,  dishes, 
knives,  forks,  tables,  benches,  and  things  that  were  stored 
in  the  pantries  and  kitchens.  You  have  heard  of  the  hang- 
ings, the  curtains,  the  candelabra,  the  sconces,  the  musical 
instruments,  the  plants,  the  vases,  the  paintings,  the  coloured 
lamps,  the  card-tables,  the  candlesticks,  the  stores  of  candles 
—  in  a  word  the  immense  collection  of  all  kinds  necessary 
for  carrying  on  the  entertainments.  It  is  true  that  the  sup- 
pers were  cooked  at  a  tavern  and  sent  in,  cold;  but  they 
had  to  be  served  in  dishes  and  provided  with  plates.  There 
was  no  wine  to  speak  of  in  the  house,  because  the  wine  was 
sent  in  for  the  night  from  the  tavern  which  supplied  it. 
Everything  in  the  house  was  broken.  The  company  of 
revenge  did  its  work  thoroughly.  Everything  was  broken: 
everything  was  thrown  out  of  the  windows :  the  centre  of  the 
Square  was  made  the  site  of  a  huge  bonfire  which,  I  believe, 
must  be  remembered  yet:  all  the  furniture  was  piled  up  on 
this  bonfire:  the  flames  ascended  to  the  skies:  that  of  the 
Black  Jack  was  a  mere  boy's  bonfire  compared  to  this,  while 
the  piles  of  broken  glass  and  china  rendered  walking  in  the 
Square  dangerous  for  many  a  day  to  come. 

You  have  heard  that  Jenny  recommended  her  women- 
servants  to  call  out  the  soldiers.  One  of  them  dared  to  run 
through  the  dark  streets  to  the  Horse  Guards.  Half  an 
hour,  however,  elapsed  before  the  soldiers  could  be  turned 
out.  At  last  they  started  with  muskets  loaded  and  bayonets 
fixed:  when  they  arrived,  the  work  was  nearly  finished:  it 
would  have  been  better  for  poor  Jenny  had  it  been  com- 
pletely finished,  as  you  will  presently  discover:  the  furniture 
was  all  broken  and,  with  the  hangings,  curtains  and  carpets, 
was  burning  on  the  bonfire.  The  soldiers  drew  up  before 
the  door:  the  mob  began  throwing  stones:  the  soldiers  fired 


Out  of  the  Frying  Pan  Into  the  Fire    22$ 

into  them.  Four  or  five  fell  —  of  whom  two  were  killed  on 
the  spot:  the  rest  were  wounded.  The  mob  soon  ran  away. 
Some  of  the  soldiers  proceeded  to  search  the  house:  they 
found  a  dozen  or  twenty  fellows  engaged  in  smashing  the 
mirrors  and  the  candelabra  in  the  dancing-hall :  they  secured 
them:  and  then,  the  mob  all  gone,  and  the  bonfire  dying 
away  they  left  a  guard  of  four  or  five  and  marched  back  with 
their  prisoners  and  the  wounded  men.  In  the  morning  the 
soldiers  fastened  up  the  broken  door  somehow  and  left  the 
empty  house.  Alas !  If  only  the  mob  had  been  able  to  fire 
the  house  and  to  burn  down  and  gut  the  place  from  cellar 
to  garret. 

This  was  the  first  act  of  revenge  on  the  part  of  St.  Giles. 
There  was  to  be  another  and  a  more  deadly  act 


CHAPTER  XIV 

AN   UNEXPECTED   CHARGE 

THE  joy  of  the  acquittal  and  the  release  was  certainly 
dashed  by  the  wild  revenge  of  the  mob  in  the  evening.  The 
wreck  of  the  great  house  with  all  its  costly  fittings  and  deco- 
rations could  be  nothing  short  of  ruin  to  poor  Jenny.  Still 
it  was  with  heartfelt  gratitude  that  I  returned  to  my  own 
roof  with  character  unblemished.  Alice  had  a  little  feast 
prepared,  not  so  joyful  as  it  might  have  been,  though  Jenny 
made  a  brave  attempt  to  be  cheerful.  Tom  was  with  us: 
the  punch-bowl  was  filled:  the  glasses  went  round:  Tom 
played  and  sang  —  nobody  could  sing  more  movingly  than 
he  when  he  was  in  that  vein;  that  is,  when  he  sat  with  a 
cheerful  company  round  the  steaming  punch-bowl. 

More  revenge,  however,  was  to  follow.  Next  morning, 
about  eight  or  nine  of  the  clock,  Jenny  came  out  with  me 
to  walk  upon  the  Bank.  For  the  time  of  year  the  weather 
was  fine,  the  sun,  still  warm,  though  it  was  now  low  down, 
and  had  a  wintry  aspect,  shone  upon  the  river:  the  wind 
tossed  up  the  water  in  little  waves;  the  boats  rocked;  the 
swans  rolled  about  and  threatened  to  capsize. 

Jenny  carried  the  boy,  who  laughed  and  played  with  her 
hair  and  impudently  planted  his  fingers  upon  her  cheek. 


226  The  Orange  Girl 

'  Will/  she  said,  '  I  must  now  contrive  some  other  means 
of  existence.  The  Assembly  Rooms  of  Soho  Square  are 
wrecked  and  destroyed.  That  is  certain.  They  are  very 
likely  burned  down  as  well.  All  my  furniture,  all  my  prop- 
erty is  destroyed.  Of  that  I  am  quite  certain.  The  villains 
would  make  short  work  once  inside.  Well,  I  can  never 
recover  credit  enough  to  refit  them.  Besides,  the  mob 
might  break  in  again,  though  I  do  not  think  they  would. 
I  am  sorry  for  my  creditors.  They  will  be  much  more 
injured  than  I  myself,'  she  laughed. 

'  Who  are  your  creditors,  Jenny? ' 

'Upholsterers,  painters,  furniture-makers,  cooks,  wine- 
merchants,  bakers,  grocers,  drapers  —  half  London,  Will. 
There  was  never  anybody  a  greater  benefactor  to  trade. 
They  let  me  go  on,  because  you  see,  they  thought  the  profits 
of  the  winter  season  would  clear  them.  Poor  dear  confiding 
people!7 

'  Well,  but  Jenny,  since  they  trusted  you  before,  will  they 
not  trust  you  again  ?' 

'  They  cannot,  possibly.  Consider  what  it  would  take  to 
refit  that  great  place.  By  this  time  all  the  mirrors  and  the 
paintings  have  been  destroyed.  Most  likely  the  house  is 
burned  down  as  well;  unless  the  soldiers  came  in  time, 
which  I  doubt.  They  generally  march  up  when  the  mis- 
chief is  done.'  So  she  began  to  toss  and  to  dandle  the  boy, 
singing  to  it.  '  Will,'  she  said, '  the  happiest  lot  for  a  woman 
is  to  live  retired  and  bring  up  her  brats.  If  Matthew  had 
been  what  he  promised  and  taken  me  away  from  London 
and  into  the  country ! ' 

'  Do  you  know  how  much  you  owe? ' 

'  I  heard,  some  time  ago,  that  it  was  over  £30,000.  Mas- 
querades, I  fear,  cannot  be  made  to  pay.  They  say  I  give 
them  too  much  wine  and  too  good.  As  for  giving  them  too 
much,  that  is  impossible.  The  men  would  drink,  every 
night,  a  three-decker  full;  their  throats  are  like  the  vasty 
deep.' 

'But  —  is  it  possible?  £30,000?  Jenny,  you  can  never 
pay  that  enormous  sum.' 

'  My  dear  Will,  I  never  thought  I  should  be  able  to  pay 
it.  Unfortunately  while  it  is  unpaid  the  good  people  are 
not  likely  to  give  me  any  more  money.  No,  Will,  that 
chapter  is  finished.  Exit  Madame  Vallance.  Who  comes 
next?' 


Out  of  the  Frying  Pan  Into  the  Fire    227 

'  But  there  are  the  creditors  to  consider.'  I  began  to  have 
fears  of  a  Debtors'  Prison  for  Jenny. 

'Oh!  The  creditors?  The  creditors,  my  dear  Will,  will 
be  handed  over  to  Matthew.  You  are  a  good  musician  but 
an  indifferent  lawyer.  Matthew  —  Matthew  —  is  responsi- 
ble for  his  wife's  liabilities.  This  is  the  only  point  which 
reconciles  me  to  marriage  with  such  a  man.  I  am  provided 
with  a  person  who  must  take  over  all  my  debts.  Dear 
Matthew!  Kind  Matthew!  That  worthy  man,  that  incom- 
parable husband  will  now,  for  the  first  time,  understand  the 
full  felicities  of  the  married  state.' 

'  But  Matthew  can  never  pay  this  enormous  sum  of 
money.' 

'  I  do  not  suppose  he  can.  Then  he  will  retreat  to  the 
Prison  where  he  put  you,  and,  as  long  as  he  lives,  will  have 
opportunity  of  blessing  first  the  day  when  he  married  a  wife, 
and  next  the  day  when  he  made  it  impossible  for  her  to  live 
with  him.  If  I  can  no  longer  carry  on  my  Assembly  Rooms, 
what  remains  ? ' 

'  There  is  always  the  stage.  Your  friends  desire  nothing 
so  much  as  your  return  to  Drury  Lane.' 

'Yes,  the  stage.  I  might  return  to  Drury  Lane.  But, 
Will,  those  good  people  who  sacked  the  Black  Jack  and 
wrecked  the  house  in  the  Square  yesterday,  they  were  my 
friends  of  old;  some  of  them,  I  believe,  are  my  cousins: 
they  formerly  came  to  applaud.  Do  you  think  they  would 
come  to  applaud  after  what  has  happened?  Not  so. 
They  would  come  with  baskets  full  of  rotten  apples  and 
addled  eggs:  they  would  salute  me  with  those  missiles;  there 
would  be  frantic  cursings  and  hissings;  they  would  drive 
me  off  the  stage  with  every  brutal  insult  that  their  filthy 
minds  could  invent.  Oh!  I  know  my  own  people  —  my 
cousins.  I  know  them.' 

'  They  will  forget  you,  Jenny.' 

'Yes,  if  I  keep  quiet.  If  I  put  myself  forward  the  old 
rancour  will  be  revived.  Who  betrayed  her  old  friends? 
Who  sent  the  Bishop  and  the  Captain  to  Newgate?  Who 
got  them  put  in  pillory  —  where  they  will  most  certainly 
have  to  stand?  Who  caused  all  the  addled  eggs  in  London 
to  fly  in  their  innocent  faces?  I  tell  you,  Will,  I  know  my 
people.  Are  they  not  my  people?  And  have  I  not  betrayed 
them?  You  lovely  boy  —  tell  your  Dada  that  Jenny  will 


228  The  Orange  Girl 


never  repent  or  regret  what  she  did  for  his  sake:  she  would 
do  it  again,  she  would  —  she  would  —  she  would.' 

'  Oh!  Jenny,  you  cut  me  to  the  heart.  What  can  I  do  for 
you?' 

'You  can  look  happy  again:  and  you  can  get  the  New- 
gate paleness  out  of  your  cheeks  —  that  is  what  you  can  do, 
Will.' 

At  this  point  of  our  discourse  I  observed,  without  paying 
any  attention  to  them,  a  little  company  of  two  men  and  a 
woman,  walking  across  the  Marsh  in  the  direction  of  the 
Palace  or  the  Church  or  perhaps  the  cottages.  I  looked  at 
them  without  suspicion.  Otherwise  it  would  have  been  easy 
for  Jenny  to  have  jumped  into  a  boat  and  to  have  escaped  — 
for  a  time  at  least.  But  at  this  juncture  we  were  singularly 
unfortunate.  The  house  in  Soho  Square  had  not  been 
burned;  otherwise  there  would  have  been  no  further  trouble. 
But  you  shall  hear.  I  went  back  to  the  question  of  the  lia- 
bilities. How  could  anyone  be  easy  who  owed  £30,000? 

'  Since  there  is  no  help,  Jenny,  for  the  creditors,  and  since 
you  are  not  responsible,  why  then,  Jenny,  you  shall  live  with 
us,  and  it  will  be  our  pride  and  happiness  to  work  for  you.' 

She  laughed.     No :  that  would  not  do  either. 

Meantime  the  people  I  had  seen  crossing  the  Marsh  were 
drawing  nearer.  I  now  observed  that  the  woman  with  the 
two  men  was  none  other  than  the  girl  I  had  seen  at  the 
Black  Jack,  sitting  on  the  Captain's  knee. 

'  Jenny,'  I  said, '  Quick!  Here  comes  a  woman  who  owes 
you  no  goodwill.  Are  you  afraid  of  her?  If  so,  let  us  take 
boat  and  escape  across  the  river.' 

'  Is  it  one  of  the  St.  Giles's  company?  No,  Will,  I  am  not 
afraid  of  the  woman,  and  you,  I  am  sure,  are  not  afraid  of  the 
men.' 

They  were  within  fifty  feet  of  us.  The  woman  broke 
away  from  the  men  and  ran  towards  us.  '  Here  she  is ! '  she 
cried.  'This  is  the  woman.  Make  her  prisoner.  Quick  1 
She  will  run  away.  I  told  you  she  would  be  here.  Oh! 
Make  her  prisoner.  Quick!  Put  on  the  handcuffs.  Tie 
her  hand  and  foot  —  she's  a  devil  —  bring  out  the  chains. 
She  is  desperate.  She  will  claw  some  of  you  with  her  nails. 
Once  she  bit  off  a  man's  ear.  That  was  when  she  was  an 
orange  girl.  Make  her  prisoner,  good  gentlemen,  as  quick 
as  you  can.  Take  care  of  her.  She'll  tear  your  eyes  out  for 
you.' 


Out  of  the  Frying  Pan  Into  the  Fire    229 

Jenny  flushed  scarlet  and  stood  still.  But  she  caught  my 
hand.  'Don't  leave  me,  Will/  she  murmured.  Leave  her? 
But  a  terrible  sinking  of  the  heart  warned  me  that  something 
horrible  and  dreadful  was  falling  upon  us.  What  was  it? 
'  I  have  felt  it  coming/  said  Jenny.  '  Come  with  me  what- 
ever they  do.' 

The  woman  was  within  six  feet  of  us,  standing  on  the^ 
Bank.  A  wild  figure  she  was,  bareheaded  save  for  her  hair' 
which  streamed  out  in  the  fresh  breeze:  she  wore  a  black 
leather  corset  and  a  frock  of  some  thick  stuff  with  a  woollen 
shawl  or  kerchief  round  her  neck.  Her  red  arms  were  bare 
to  the  elbow;  she  had  a  black  eye  and  a  disfiguring  scratch 
across  her  cheek.  Her  bosom  heaved;  her  lips  trembled; 
her  eyes  were  bright ;  her  cheeks  were  flaming.  I  knew  her 
now!  She  was  the  girl  I  had  seen  sitting  on  the  Captain's 
knee.  And  I  understood.  This  was  more  revenge. 

The  two  men  then  approached.  I  knew  them,  too,  alas! 
I  had  good  reason  to  know  them.  They  were  officers  of 
Bow  Street  Court. 

'  By  your  leave,  Madame/  said  one,  '  I  have  an  order  to 
arrest  the  body  of  Madame  Vallance,  otherwise  called  Jenny 
Wilmot,  otherwise  Mrs.  Matthew  Halliday.'  He  produced 
his  emblem  of  office,  the  short  wand  with  a  brass  crown 
upon  it. 

. '  I  am  the  person  Sir.     I  suppose  you  have  some  reason 
—  some  charge  —  against  me?' 

'  Receiving  stolen  goods,  knowing  the  same  to  have  been 
stolen.' 

*  Oh ! '  she  caught  at  my  arm.     '  I  had  forgotten  that  dan- 
ger—  Will,  do  not  leave  me  —  not  yet  —  not  yet.'    Then 
she  recovered  her  self-possession.     '  Well,  gentlemen,  I  am 
your  prisoner.     This  gentleman,  my  friend  and  cousin,  may, 
I  suppose,  come  with  me?'     Alice  came  to  the  door  and 
looked  out  astonished  to  see  two  officers.     '  Take  your  child, 
Alice/  said  Jenny,  '  I  must  go  with  these  gentlemen.     Not 
content  with  destroying  my  property,  they  are  now  trying 
to  destroy  my  character.     Will  goes  with  me  to  see  what  it 
means.     He  will  report  to  you  later  on ! ' 

*  Oh !  your  character ! '  said  the  woman.     '  A  pretty  char- 
acter you've  got!     How  long  since  you  had  a  character  at 
all,  I  should  like  to  know?    Destroy  your  character?    I  will 
destroy  your  life  —  your  life  —  your   life  —  vile   impudent 


230  The  Orange  Girl 

drab  —  I  shall  take  your  life.  You  shall  learn  what  it  means 
to  turn  against  your  friends/ 

'  Come/  said  one  of  the  men,  '  you've  shown  us  where  she 
was.  No  more  jaw.  Now  leave  us.  Go.  You  have  had 
your  revenge/ 

'  Not  yet  —  not  till  I  see  her  in  the  cart.  That  is  the  only 
revenge  that  will  satisfy  me/ 

Jenny  looked  at  her  with  a  kind  of  pity.  '  Poor  soul ! ' 
she  said,  gently.  '  Do  you  think  the  man  is  worth  all  this 
revenge?  Do  you  think  he  cares  for  you?  Do  you  think 
you  will  care  about  him  after  a  day  or  two?  What  do  you 
think  you  will  get  by  all  the  revenge  possible?  More  of  his 
love  and  fidelity?  Who  gave  you  that  black  eye?  Will 
you  make  him  any  happier  in  his  prison  —  will  you  make 
him  any  fonder?' 

'  Oh ! '  the  woman  gasped  and  caught  her  breath. 
'  Revenge?  If  I  can  find  your  mother  and  your  sister  I  will 
kill  them  both  with  a  pair  of  scissors/  She  improved  this 
prophecy  by  a  few  decorative  adjectives.  '  As  for  you,  this 
will  teach  you  to  turn  against  your  own  folk  —  the  poor 
rogues  —  you  belong  to  us:  and  you  turn  against  us.  To 
save  a  man  that  belongs  to  other  folk.  Ha!  The  rope  is 
round  your  neck  already !  Ha !  I  see  you  swinging.  Ho ! ' 
She  stopped  and  gasped  again,  being  overcome  with  the 
emotion  of  satisfied  revenge. 

'  Perhaps/  I  said  weakly,  '  this  good  woman  would  take 
a  guinea  and  go  away  quietly?' 

'No!  No!'  she  replied,  'not  if  you  stuffed  my  pockets 
full  of  guineas.  You've  put  my  man  in  prison.  They  say 
he'll  stand  in  pillory  and  p'r'aps  be  killed  —  the  properest 
man  in  St.  Giles's.  They  kill  them  sometimes  in  the  pil- 
lory/ she  shuddered,  'but  p'r'aps  they'll  let  him  off  easy. 
As  for  you,  my  fine  Madame  —  you  that  look  so  haughty 
—  you,  the  orange  girl  —  you'll  be  hanged  —  you'll  be 
hanged!'  She  screamed  these  words  dancing  about  and 
cracking  her  fingers  like  a  mad  woman.  Never  before  had 
I  seen  a  woman  so  entirely  possessed  by  the  fury  of  love's 
bereavement.  Do  not  imagine  that  I  have  set  down  her 
actual  words  —  that  I  could  not  do  —  nor  the  half  of  what 
she  said.  And  all  for  such  a  lover !  for  a  footpad  and  high- 
way robber;  for  a  brute  who  beat  her,  kicked  her,  and 
knocked  her  down ;  a  low,  dirty  villain,  who  made  her  fetch 
and  carry  and  work  for  him;  who  had  no  tenderness,  or  any; 


Out  of  the  Frying  Pan  Into  the  Fire    231 

good  thing  in  him  at  all.  Yet  he  was  her  man;  and  she 
loved  him;  and  she  would  be  revenged  for  him.  This 
woman,  I  say,  was  like  a  tigress  bereft  of  her  cubs.  Had 
it  not  been  for  the  constable  who  stood  between  and  for 
myself  who  stood  beside,  she  would  have  flown  at  poor 
Jenny  with  nail  and  claw  and,  indeed,  any  other  weapon 
which  Nature  had  given  to  woman.  I  saw  two  women 
fighting  once  for  a  man:  'twas  in  the  King's  Bench  Prison; 
they  were  pulled  apart  after  one  had  been  disfigured  for 
life  by  the  other's  teeth.  This  woman  wanted  only  per- 
mission to  rush  in  and  do  likewise.  But  the  constable  kept 
her  back  with  his  strong  arm. 

'  Come,'  he  said,  '  enough  said.  What's  the  use  of  crying 
and  shrieking?  You'll  all  be  hanged  in  good  time  —  all 
be  hanged.  What  else  are  you  fit  for?  And  a  blessed 
thing  it  is  for  you  that  you  will  be  hanged.  That's  what 
I  say.  If  you  only  knew  it.  Madame,'  he  said  very  respect- 
fully, '  I  must  ask  leave  to  take  you  before  his  worship.'  He 
held  out  his  hand:  the  hand  of  Law  in  all  her  branches  from 
Counsel  to  thief  taker  is  always  held  out.  I  gave  him  half 
a  guinea. 

The  woman  was  still  standing  beside  us,  shaking  and 
trembling  under  the  agitation  of  the  late  storm.  '  Here 
you,'  said  the  officer,  'we've  had  enough  of  your  filthy 
tongue.  Get  off  with  you.  Go,  I  say.'  He  stepped  for- 
ward with  a  menacing  gesture.  Among  these  women  a 
blow  generally  follows  a  word.  She  turned  and  walked 
away.  I  followed  her  with  my  eyes.  Her  shoulders  still 
heaved;  her  fingers  worked:  from  time  to  time  she  turned 
and  shook  her  fist:  and  though  I  could  not  hear  I  am  certain 
she  was  talking  to  herself. 

'  Where  are  we  going?'  Jenny  asked,  humbly. 

'  To  Sir  John  Fielding's,  Bow  Street,  Madame.  Lord! 
what  signifies  what  a  madwoman  like  that  says?  She's  lost 
her  man  and  she's  off  her  head.' 

'  How  are  we  to  get  there? ' 

'  Well,  Madam,  there  is  no  coach  to  be  got  this  side  the 
High  Street.  If  I  may  make  so  bold  there's  the  boats  at 
the  Horseferry.  We  can  drop  down  the  river  more  quickly 
than  over  London  Bridge.' 

Jenny  made  no  remark.  She  sat  in  the  boat  with  bent 
head,  her  cheeks  still  flaming. 


232  The  Orange  Girl 

'  I  am  thinking,  Will.  Don't  speak  to  me  just  at 
present/ 

The  boat  carried  us  swiftly  down  the  river. 

'  I  am  thinking/  she  repeated,  '  what  is  best  to  do.  Will, 
I  had  quite  forgotten  the  things.'  I  could  not  understand 
a  word  of  what  she  said.  '  I  know  now  what  I  have  to  do. 
It's  a  hard  thing  to  do,  but  it's  the  best.' 

She  explained  no  more,  and  we  presently  arrived  at  the 
Savoy  Stairs  and  took  a  coach  to  Bow  Street  Police  Court. 
It  was  only  six  weeks  since  I  was  there  last,  but  on  what 
a  different  errand! 

The  blind  magistrate  took  our  case  and  called  for  the 
evidence. 

First,  the  woman  who  had  delivered  Jenny  into  the  hands 
of  the  law  deposed  that  she  was  a  respectable  milliner  by 
trade ;  that  she  was  accidentally  in  the  neighbourhood  of 
the  Black  Jack  about  midnight  three  nights  before,  when 
she  became  aware  of  something  which  excited  her  curiosity 
and  interest.  The  landlady  of  the  tavern  and  her  daughter 
Doll  were  carrying  between  them  a  box  full  of  something  or 
other.  She  followed  them,  herself  unseen.  They  walked 
down  Denmark  Street  into  Hog's  Lane,  and  carried  their 
box  into  a  garden,  the  door  of  which  was  open:  for  greater 
certainty  of  knowing  the  place  again  she  marked  the  door 
in  the  corner  with  a  cross.  Then  the  two  women  came  out 
and  returned  to  the  Black  Jack.  All  night  long  they  were 
carrying  things  from  the  tavern  to  the  garden  gate;  some- 
times in  boxes,  sometimes  in  their  arms;  there  were  silk 
mantles  and  satin  frocks  and  embroidered  petticoats,  very 
fine.  That  work  kept  them  all  night.  Now,  knowing  the 
old  woman  to  be  a  notorious  fence,  she  was  certain  that 
these  were  stolen  goods,  and  that  they  were  removing  them 
for  safety  to  this  house  probably  unknown  to  the  master  and 
the  mistress;  that  in  the  morning  when  it  was  light  she  went 
back  to  the  place  and  found  that  the  garden-door  was  the 
back-door  of  the  premises  known  as  the  Soho  Square  Assem- 
bly Rooms  kept  by  a  Madame  Vallance.' 

'  Well?  what  then?'  asked  Sir  John. 

'  Your  worship,  the  next  day  was  the  trial  of  that  gentle- 
man there  for  robbing  the  Bishop  and  the  Captain.  I  was 
in  the  Old  Bailey,  sir,  and  the  gentleman  would  have  been 
brought  in  guilty  and  hanged,  as  many  a  better  man  than 
he  has  suffered  it  without  a  whisper  or  a  snivel  —  but  this 


Out  of  the  Frying  Pan  Into  the  Fire    233 

woman  here  —  this  Madame  Vallance  who  is  nothing  in  the 
world  but  Jenny  Wilmot  the  actress  —  who  was  an  Orange 
Girl  at  Drury  Lane  once  —  and  is  the  daughter  of  the  old 
woman  that  keeps  the  Black  Jack/ 

'The  Black  Jack!'  said  Sir  John.  'The  mob  wrecked 
that  house  last  night.' 

'And  the  other  house  too.  They  would  have  set  it  on 
fire,  your  Honour/  said  the  girl,  '  but  the  soldiers  came  up 
and  stopped  them.  More's  the  pity.' 

'Have  a  care,  woman,'  said  the  magistrate,  'or  I  shall 
commit  you  for  taking  part  in  the  riot.  Go  on  with  your 
evidence  if  you  have  any  more.' 

She  gave  her  evidence  in  a  quick  impetuous  manner.  It 
was  like  a  cataract  of  angry  burning  words. 

'  It  was  in  the  garret  that  I  found  the  things ;  I  knew  them 
at  once.  I'd  been  down  in  Mother  Wilmot's  cellars.  Oh! 
I  knew  them  at  once.  Jenny's  got  the  stolen  goods,  I  said. 
And  so  she  had.  So  she  had,  your  Honour,  and  oh!  let 
her  deny  it  —  let  her  deny  it  —  if  she  can.' 

'  You  found  property  in  the  garret  which  you  identified  as 
stolen.  Pray  how  did  you  know  that  fact?' 

'  Because  it  came  from  Mother  Wilmot's  cellars.' 

'  That  does  not  prove  it  to  be  stolen.' 

'  Well,  Sir,  I  happened  to  know  some  respectable  people 
who  had  been  robbed  of  late,  and  I  made  bold  to  tell  them 
of  it;  and  they  found  their  own  things,  and  here  the  worthy 
respectable  gentlemen  are  to  testify.' 

'  I  will  hear  them  presently.'  Then  Sir  John  began  to 
ask  the  woman  a  few  questions  which  mightily  disconcerted 
her.  If,  he  asked,  she  was  a  respectable  milliner,  where 
did  she  work?  If  she  was  a  respectable  woman,  what  was 
she  doing  in  front  of  St.  Giles's  Church  at  midnight?  If 
she  were  a  respectable  woman,  how  did  she  come  to  know 
the  landlady  of  the  Black  Jack  and  her  daughter?  How  was 
it  she  found  herself  in  the  garrets  at  all?  At  what  time  was 
she  in  the  garrets?  How  did  she  come  to  know  the  people 
who  had  lost  property  of  late?  In  a  word  he  made  the 
woman  confess  who  she  was  and  what  she  was.  And  he 
then,  to  her  confusion  and  amazement,  committed  her  for 
trial  for  taking  part  in  the  riots.  So  she  was  put  aside,  and 
presently  consigned  to  Newgate  with  other  rioters  taken  in 
the  fact.  In  the  end  she  was  imprisoned  and  whipped.  Still 
her  evidence  proved  the  deposit  of  goods  in  the  garrets.  The 


234  The  Orange  Girl 

worthy  gentlemen  to  whom  she  referred  were  three  or  four 
respectable  tradesmen  of  Holborn.  They  deposed,  one  after 
the  other,  how  they  had  suffered  of  late  much  from  depre- 
dations which  prevented  them  from  exposing  their  goods 
at  their  doors;  that  this  woman  had  called  to  warn  them  of 
certain  things  found  by  the  rioters  in  the  garrets  of  the  Soho 
Square  Assembly  Rooms;  that  they  went  to  see  the  things 
by  permission  of  the  guard  of  soldiers:  that  they  found 
certain  things  of  their  own,  which  they  identified  by  private 
marks  upon  them. 

The  evidence  was  concluded.  '  Madame,'  the  magistrate 
said, '  you  have  heard  the  evidence.  What  have  you  to  say? 
If  you  desire  to  call  evidence  for  the  defence  I  will  remand 
the  case.  You  can  produce,  perhaps,  your  mother  and  sis- 
ter, though  I  confess,  they  are  not  likely  to  appear.' 

'  They  got  away  yesterday,  to  avoid  the  fury  of  the  mob, 
Sir.  This  woman  is  angry  because  I  have  proved  her  lover 
to  be  guilty  of  perjury.' 

'That  is  evident.  On  the  other  hand,  your  house  con- 
tained the  stolen  goods;  your  mother  was  seen  taking  them 
into  the  house.  The  circumstances  are  such  as  to  make  it 
evident  that  your  mother  desired  a  place  of  safety.  It  is 
proper  to  show  that  you  were  not  an  accomplice  of  the 
removal  and  the  reception  in  your  house.7 

'  I  submit.  Sir,  that  I  can  only  prove  this  by  calling  my 
mother  as  witness,  and,  Sir,  you  have  yourself  acknowledged 
that  she  is  not  likely  to  appear.' 

'Then,  Madame,  I  can  only  ask  you  for  anything  you 
may  say  in  defence/ 

'  Sir,  I  shall  say  nothing/ 

This  reply  amazed  me  beyond  anything.  I  expected  her 
to  deny  indignantly  any  knowledge  of  the  matter,  and  to 
declare  that  the  things  had  been  brought  into  the  house 
without  her  knowledge.  She  would  say  nothing.  Then 
Sir  John  committed  her  for  trial.  I  placed  her  in  a  coach 
with  such  heaviness  of  heart  as  you  may  imagine  and  we 
drove  to  Newgate.  Jenny  was  well  remembered  by  the 
turnkeys,  to  whom  she  had  been  generous  and  even  profuse, 
in  my  case.  Turnkeys  are  never  astonished,  but  the  appear- 
ance of  Madame  was  perhaps  an  exception  to  this  general 
rule.  However,  on  payment  of  certain  guineas  she  was 
placed,  alone,  in  the  best  cell  that  the  woman's  side  could 
boast, 


Out  of  the  Frying  Pan  Into  the  Fire    235 

'Jenny! '  I  cried  when  we  were  alone.  'For  God's  sake 
what  does  it  mean?  Why  did  you  not  deny  knowledge  of 
the  whole  business?  What  have  you  to  do  with  stolen 
goods?  Even  supposing  that  your  mother  took  them 
there,  what  has  that  got  to  do  with  you?' 

'  I  shall  tell  the  whole  truth  to  you,  Will,  and  only  to 
you.  But  you  may  tell  Alice.  From  you  I  will  keep  no 
secrets/ 

'  Oh!  Jenny,  it  is  for  me  —  for  me  —  that  you  have  fallen 
into  all  this  trouble.  What  shall  I  do?  What  shall  I  do? ' 
I  looked  round  the  mean,  bare,  and  ugly  walls  of  the  cell. 
Twas  a  poor  exchange  from  the  private  room  in  the  Square. 
And  all  for  me! 

'  What  did  your  boy  tell  you  this  morning,  Will?  That 
Jenny  never  regrets  —  never  repents  —  what  she  has  done 
for  you.  She  would  do  it  all  over  again  —  over  again  —  a 
hundred  thousand  times  over  again.'  She  buried  her  face 
in  her  hands  for  a  moment.  'Twas  not  in  woman's  nature 
to  restrain  the  tears.  Then  she  sprang  to  her  feet.  '  What? 
you  think  I  am  going  to  cry  because  the  woman  has  done 
this?  At  least  she  is  coming  to  Newgate  as  well.  Now, 
Will.  I  must  tell  you  the  truth.  It  was  most  important  to 
get  the  evidence  of  my  mother  and  of  Doll.  They  con- 
nected Probus  with  the  conspiracy.  They  helped  to  iden- 
tify the  two  principal  witnesses.  Well,  I  had  to  buy  their 
evidence.  They  made  me  pay  a  pretty  price  for  it.  As  for 
Doll,  you  wouldn't  believe  what  a  grasping  creature  she  is. 
That  comes  of  keeping  the  slate.  I  had  to  compensate 
them  for  the  loss  of  their  daily  takings  at  the  Black  Jack. 
I  paid  them  for  their  stock  of  liquors  —  we  saw  the  mob 
drinking  it  up  last  night:  I  paid  them  for  their  furniture  and 
their  clothes.  I  gave  them  money  to  get  out  of  London 
with,  and  to  keep  them  until  they  can  get  another  tavern; 
they  got  money  from  me  on  one  pretence  or  the  other  till 
I  thought  they  were  resolved  on  taking  all  I  had.  And 
when  I  had  paid  for  everything  and  thought  they  were 
settled  and  done  with  there  arose  the  question  of  the  stolen 
goods.  And  I  really  thought  the  whole  business  was  ruined 
and  undone/ 

'  What  question?' 

'Why,  my  parent,  Will,  had  got  under  the  old  house  a 
spacious  stone  vault  quite  dry,  built  up  with  arches  and 
paved  with  stone;  there  isn't  a  finer  store-room  in  all  Lon- 


236  The  Orange  Girl 

don:  it  belonged  once  to  some  people  —  I  don't  know  — 
religious  people  who  liked  shutting  themselves  up  in  the 
dark.  I  suppose  that  mother  couldn't  bear  waste  or  the 
throwing  away  of  good  opportunities  for  she  turned  the 
vault  into  a  cellar  for  stolen  goods;  she  bought  the  goods; 
she  stored  them  down  below;  she  sold  them  to  people  who 
carried  them  about  the  country.  Everybody  knew  it;  and 
she  was  pretty  safe  because  she  had  a  good  name  for  the 
prices  she  gave,  and  even  Merridew  had  to  let  her  alone. 
Well,  what  was  to  be  done  with  the  things  in  the  vault? 
There  was  enough  to  hang  them  both  a  hundred  times. 
They  took  me  down  to  see  them.  I  never  suspected  there 
was  anything  like  the  quantity  of  things.  Plain  silver 
melted  down;  gold  melted  down;  precious  stones  picked 
out  of  rings |  and  snuff-boxes;  patch  boxes;  rolls  of  silk; 
boxes  of  gloves;  handkerchiefs;  frocks  and  gowns  and 
embroidered  petticoats  and  mantles;  ribbons  of  all  kinds; 
the  place  was  like  a  wonderful  shop.  Time  was  pressing. 
It  was  impossible  for  mother  to  sell  everything  at  once; 
things  have  to  be  taken  into  the  country  and  sold  cau- 
tiously to  the  Squire's'  lady,  who  knows  very  well  what  she 
is  buying,  just  as  her  husband  knows  that  he  is  buying 
smuggled  brandy/ 

'So  you  bought  the  things?' 

1  There  was  nothing  else  to  do.  Mother  tied  up  the 
jewels  in  her  handkerchief;  Doll  took  the  melted  gold  and 
silver;  and  they  undertook  to  carry  all  the  rest  of  the 
things  across  to  the  garden  door  in  Hog  Lane;  the  door 
by  which  we  escaped  yesterday;  and  to  store  them  in  my 
cellars  and  garrets.  This,  I  suppose,  they  did.  I  paid  for 
the  things.  They  are  mine,  Will.' 

'Oh!'  I  groaned. 

'Yes,  they  are  mine.  This  comes  of  being  born  in  St. 
Giles's  and  belonging  to  the  Black  Jack.  Well,  I  clean 
forgot  all  about  the  things.  Well  now;  this  is  the  point. 
If  I  deny  knowledge  of  them  they  will  send  out  a  hue  and 
cry  for  mother.  She  will  certainly  be  found  and  brought 
up  on  the  charge.  And  she  is  not  the  sort  to  suffer  in 
silence.  I  know  my  people,  Will:  she  and  Doll  will  let  it 
be  known  that  I  bought  the  things,  so  that  we  may  all 
thus  stand  in  the  Dock  together.  And  I  assure  you,  Will, 
I  would  much  rather  stand  in  the  Dock  alone.  I  shall  have 
a  better  chance/ 


Out  of  the  Frying  Pan  Into  the  Fire    237 


'Yes  — but 


'  If  I  take  the  whole  business  on  myself  they  won't  drag 
in  mother.  They  will  let  her  alone  and  she  will  keep  quiet 
for  her  own  sake.  Besides,  seeing  what  this  woman  has 
got  by  her  evidence  I  don't  think  the  others  will  be  eager 
to  give  their  evidence.  Now,  Will,  you  know  the  exact 
truth.  And  —  and  —  this  is  what  one  expects  if  you  belong 
to  the  Black  Jack/ 

'  But  —  Jenny  —  think  —  think/ 

'  I  know  what  you  would  say,  dear  lad.  They  will  hang 
me.  It  is  a  most  ungraceful  way  of  going  out  of  the  world. 
One  would  prefer  a  feather  bed  with  dignity.  But  indeed; 
have  no  fears,  Will.  They  will  do  nothing  of  the  kind.  If 
Jenny  Wilmot  made  any  friends  at  Drury  Lane  now  is  the 
time  to  prove  them.  But  I  must  think  what  to  do/ 

She  sat  down  to  the  table.  There  were  writing  materials 
upon  it.  She  took  quill  in  hand.  Then  she  turned  to  me 
with  her  pretty  smile.  'Oh!  Will  —  what  a  disaster  it  was 
that  the  soldiers  came  up  before  the  mob  had  set  fire  to 
the  house!  What  a  disaster!  If  the  house  was  burned  the 
things  in  the  garrets  would  have  been  burned  as  well  and 
all  the  stolen  goods  would  have  been  destroyed  and  no 
trace  left.  What  a  disaster! '  She  laughed.  '  What  might 
have  been  called  my  good  fortune  has  turned  out  the  great- 
est misfortune  that  could  have  happened  to  me/ 

'  I  must  think/  she  said.  '  I  must  be  alone  and  think 
out  the  whole  situation.  It  all  depends  on  what  should 
be  told  and  what  should  be  concealed.  That,  I  take  it,  is 
the  history  of  everything.  Some  parts  we  hide  and  some 
we  tell.  I  must  think/ 

I  did  not  disturb  her.  She  leaned  her  head  upon  her 
hand  and  was  silent  for  awhile. 

'  Will/  she  said,  '  of  all  my  friends  there  are  but  two  on 
whom  I  can  rely  with  any  hope  of  help  —  only  two.  Yet 
they  told  me  I  had  troops  of  friends.  You  have  heard  me 
speak  of  a  certain  noble  lord  who  made  love  to  me.  He 
made  love  so  seriously  that  he  was  ready  to  marry  me.  I 
refused  him,  as  a  reward.  Besides  his  sister  came  and 
wept  —  I  told  you  the  story.  I  cannot  bear  to  see  even  a 
woman  weep.  Well,  Will,  this  man  is,  I  am  quite  sure,  a 
loyal  and  faithful  gentleman,  the  only  one  of  all  my  lovers 
whom  I  could  respect.  I  am  going  to  write  to  him.  He 
promised  me,  upon  his  honour,  to  come  to  my  assistance  if 


238  The  Orange  Girl 

ever  I  wanted  any  help  of  any  kind.  I  am  going  to 
remind  him  of  that  promise.  The  next  friend  is  the  Man- 
ager of  Drury.  He  will  help  me  if  he  can,  though  he  did 
not  propose  to  marry  me.  I  will  write  to  him  as  well. 
And  I  must  write  to  my  attorney,  who  is  also  a  friend 
of  yours.  '  Now,  Will  I  want  you  to  take  by  your  own 
hand  a  letter  to  his  lordship.  Go  to  his  town  house  in 
Curzon  Street  and  ask  the  people  to  deliver  the  letter 
instantly.  The  other  two  letters  you  can  send  by  messen- 
ger. And,  Will,  one  more  thing.  I  believe  you  ought  to 
warn  Matthew  what  to  expect.  Since  he  is  going  to  be 
bankrupt  on  his  own  account  it  will  not  hurt  him  very 
much  to  be  bankrupt  on  mine  as  well.  Now  wait  a  little, 
while  I  write  the  letters/ 


CHAPTER  XV 

THE    FILIAL    MARTYR 

I  HASTENED  on  my  errand,  taking  a  boat  to  Westminster, 
whence  it  is  a  short  walk  across  the  Parks  to  Curzon 
Street,  where  my  Lord  Brockenhurst  had  his  town  house. 
It  was  about  three  o'clock  in  the  afternoon:  I  found  car- 
riages and  chaises  waiting  outside  the  open  door,  and  the 
hall  within  filled  with  servants  in  livery  lolling  about  and 
exchanging  insolent  remarks  upon  the  people  who  crowded 
up  the  stairs.  I  am  little  versed  in  the  customs  of  the 
Great,  but  I  confess  that  the  continual  presence  of  these 
insolent  and  hulking  varlets  in  the  house  and  in  all  the 
rooms  would  be  to  me  a  burden  intolerable.  What  says 
Doctor  Johnson? 

4  The  pride  of  awful  state. 
The  golden  canopy,  the  glitt'ring  plate, 
The  regal  palace,  the  luxurious  board, 
The  liveried  army  and  the  menial  lord 

I  believe  he  meant  the  lords  who  were  obsequious  to  the 
Cardinal:  we  may  read  it,  to  suit  those  times,  the  impudent 
menials  who  lord  it  over  their  Master's  house. 

I  thought  of  those  lines  as  I  waited,  neglected,  in  the 


Out  of  the  Frying  Pan  Into  the  Fire    239 

Hall  among  the  lacqueys.     Fortunately  I  was  reminded  of 
other  lines  by  the  same  great  author. 

'  Where  won  by  bribes,  by  flatteries  implored, 
The  groom  retails  the  favours  of  his  Lord/ 

I  turned  to  one  of  them  whose  shoulder  knots  and  his 
rod  of  office  proclaimed  him  one  in  authority. 

'  Sir/  I  said,  '  I  am  the  bearer  of  a  letter  for  his  Lord- 
ship/ 

'  Wait,  friend,  wait.     His  Lordship  will  receive  presently/ 

'  Sir.  It  is  an  important  letter.  It  is  from  a  lady.  I 
assure  you  that  his  Lordship  would  be  much  vexed  not  to 
receive  it/ 

'  Give  it  to  me,  then/ 

'  Sir.  By  your  leave.  It  is  very  important.  Can  you 
contrive  to  put  it  into  his  Lordship's  hand  immediately?' 

He  looked  at  me  with  an  air  of  surprise,  and  made  no 
reply. 

'  Pardon  me,  Sir/  I  said,  taking  out  my  purse,  in  which 
were  two  guineas  —  all  I  had  in  the  world  — '  I  forgot  to 
add  that  I  rely  on  your  good  offices/  with  that  I  slipped  a 
guinea  into  his  hand. 

'  Ay  — '  he  said.  '  Now  you  talk  sense.  Well,  Sir,  you 
may  trust  me.  His  Lordship  shall  have  the  letter  within 
an  hour,  as  soon  as  his  company  begins  to  go/ 

With  this  assurance  I  was  fain  to  be  content.  So  I  came 
away  hoping  that  the  fellow  would  keep  his  word.  This, 
happily,  he  did. 

It  was  too  late  at  that  hour  to  seek  out  Matthew  in  his 
counting-house.  Besides,  I  confess  that  I  felt  pity  for  the 
poor  wretch  thus  hastening  to  destruction.  His  haggard 
look  at  the  trial  showed  the  miseries  he  was  suffering.  He 
gave  his  evidence,  as  you  have  heard  on  the  threat  that 
otherwise  he  would  be  charged  with  the  other  four  with 
conspiracy:  and  now  a  misfortune  almost  as  bad  was  to  fall 
upon  him.  To  go  to  him  would  have  the  appearance  of 
exulting  over  these  misfortunes.  Yet  it  was  necessary  to 
tell  him. 

I  went  home  sadly.  That  Jenny  should  suffer  the  wreck 
and  destruction  of  her  house  in  Soho  Square,  was  hard: 
that  she  should,  also,  which  was  much  worse,  be  arrested 
on  a  capital  charge  and  committed  to  Newgate:  that  she 


240  The  Orange  Girl 

should  have  nothing  to  say  or  to  plead  in  defence:  in 
revenge  for  the  part  she  had  played  in  proving  my  inno- 
cence: these  things,  I  say,  were  difficult  to  Understand. 
Why  should  she  not  plead  '  Not  Guilty/  and  leave  it  to  the 
prosecution  to  prove  that  she  was  the  owner  of  the  prop- 
erty or  that  she  knew  it  was  in  her  house?  Who  would 
believe  the  word  of  the  revengeful  fury  who  swore  to  seeing 
the  things  taken  to  the  house  by  the  old  woman  and  her 
daughter?  Would  not  a  clever  counsel  make  her  contra- 
dict herself?  and  confess,  somehow,  that  she  herself  had 
laid  the  things  there  by  way  of  a  trap? 

So  I  argued,  blind,  in  my  anxiety. 

1  Will/  said  Alice,  '  you  would  meet  misfortune  by  false- 
hood. Fie!  You  would  lay  a  trap  set  by  a  clever  talker 
to  catch  this  miserable  ignorant  woman.  Fie! ' 

'What  then?'  I  cried.  'Ignorant  or  not  she  is  a  mis- 
chievous and  a  revengeful  woman.  My  dear,  I  would  save 
Jenny  at  any  cost/ 

'  I  think  Jenny  is  right,  Will.  She  will  meet  the  charge 
by  simply  pleading  "  Guilty  "  to  whatever  they  can  prove 
against  her:  namely,  having  the  things  in  her  house,  know- 
ing that  they  were  stolen.  I  think  it  is  her  wisest  course. 
No  questions  will  be  asked:  no  one  will  believe  that  a 
woman  in  her  position  could  actually  be  guilty  of  receiving 
stolen  goods  so  worthless:  it  will  be  understood  by  every- 
body that  she  is  screening  someone  —  some  close  relation 
—  even  at  the  risk  of  her  own  life/ 

I  replied  by  a  groan  of  dissent. 

'Jenny  is  not  an  actress  for  nothing.  She  ought  not 
to  have  bought  the  things  at  all:  or  she  ought  to  have 
destroyed  them:  this  I  supppose  she  would  have  done,  but 
she  forgot:  she  was  wholly  occupied  in  saving  you.  We 
must  remember  that  with  gratitude  unspeakable,  Will/ 

'  Yes,  wife,  God  knows  I  do/ 

'  The  world  has  been  told  over  and  over  again  that  poor 
Jenny  was  once  an  Orange  Girl:  do  people  ever  expect 
Orange  Girls  to  come  of  respectable  parents?  To  take 
guilt  upon  yourself  —  in  order  to  screen  your  mother  — 
will  appear  to  the  world  as  a  noble  and  generous  act.  It 
would  have  taken  you  and  me,  Will,  a  month  to  discover 
the  best  way  out  of  the  trouble.  But  Jenny  saw  her  way 
at  once/ 


Out  of  the  Frying  Pan  Into  the  Fire    241 

In  the  end  Alice  proved  to  be  right.  Jenny  chose  the 
very  best  thing  possible,  as  you  shall  see. 

In  the  morning  I  began  by  making  my  way  to  the  old 
familiar  place,  the  Counting  House  and  Wharf  close  to 
All-hallows  the  Great.  The  Wharf  was  quite  empty  and 
desolate:  the  cranes  were  there,  but  there  were  no  lighters: 
the  casks  and  bales  that  formerly  encumbered  the  place 
were  gone:  in  the  outer  counting-house  there  were  no  clerks 
except  Ramage.  But  the  place  was  filled  with  lawyers' 
clerks  attornies,  creditors  and  their  representatives.  The 
talk  was  loud  and  angry:  all  were  talking  together:  all  were 
threatening  terrible  things  unless  their  claims  were  paid 
in  full. 

Ramage  held  up  his  hands  when  he  saw  me  and  shook 
his  head. 

'Will  my  cousin  see  me,  Ramage?'  I  asked.  'Tell  him 
I  have  something  of  the  greatest  importance  to  say  to  him/ 

It  is  all  over,  Mr.  William/  he  whispered.  The  blow 
has  fallen.  After  the  things  which  came  out  in  the  Old 
Bailey  there  was  no  hope.  It  was  all  over  the  City  at 
once  and  on  Change  in  the  afternoon.  You  will  find  him 
within.  I  fear  you  will  find  that  he  has  been  drinking. 
Go  in,  Sir,  you  must  not  pay  any  heed  to  what  he  says. 
He  has  been  strange  and  unlike  himself  for  a  long  time. 
No  wonder  with  all  these  troubles/  Thus  did  the  faithful 
servant  stand  up  for  the  credit  of  an  unworthy  master. 
'  Go  in,  Sir.  He  will  insult  you.  But  don't  mind  what 
he  says/ 

I  went  in.  Matthew  was  evidently  half  drunk.  He  had 
a  bottle  of  brandy  before  him,  and  he  was  drinking  fast 
and  furiously. 

'  Gaol-bird ! '  he  cried,  banging  his  fist  on  the  table  and 
talking  thickly.  'Newgate-bird  —  what  do  you  want? 
Money?  You  all  want  money.  You  may  go  away  then. 
I  haven't  got  any  money.  All  the  money's  gone.  All  the 
money's  lost/  So  he  went  on  repeating  his  words,  and 
maundering  and  forgetting  one  moment  what  he  had  said 
just  before. 

'  Matthew,'  I  said,  '  I  have  not  come  to  ask  for  money 
or  for  anything.  I  have  brought  you  news/ 

'  What  news?  There  is  no  news  but  bad  news.  Perhaps 
somebody  has  murdered  Probus.  Why  don't  you  murder 
Probus  —  murder  —  murder  Probus?'  I  suffered  him  to 


242  The  Orange  Girl 

go  on  in  his  foolish  way  without  reply.  '  Do  you  know, 
Will/  he  lay  back  in  his  chair  and  plunged  his  hands  in  his 
pockets,  '  there  is  nobody  I  should  like  to  see  murdered  so 
much  as  Probus  —  Ezekiel  Probus,  excepting  yourself.  If 
I  could  see  both  of  you  hanging  side  by  side,  I  should  be 
happy;  but  if  I  could  see  you  both  murdered  with  a  blud- 
geon I  could  go  —  I  could  go  —  I  could  go  to  the  King's 
Bench  cheerfully  —  cheerfully/ 

It  was  no  use  prolonging  the  interview.  I  told  him, 
briefly,  why  I  had  come. 

'  Your  wife/  I  said,  '  has  had  her  house  sacked  and  the 
whole  of  her  property  destroyed  by  the  mob/ 

'  I  am  glad  of  that  —  very  glad  to  hear  that.  All  of  it 
destroyed  you  say?  This  is  good  news  indeed/ 

'  She  can  no  longer  carry  on  her  business  at  the  Soho 
Square  Assembly  Rooms.  The  property  destroyed  con- 
sists largely  of  furniture  supplied  for  the  use  of  the  Rooms. 
It  is  not  yet  paid  for.  Therefore,  she  will  be  compelled  to 
refer  her  creditors  to  you/ 

'Her  creditors?  Does  this  abandoned  woman  owe  any 
money,  then?' 

'I  believe  about  ^30,000  is  the  sum  of  her  liabilities/ 

He  laughed.  He  laughed  cheerfully,  as  if  it  was  one  of 
the  merriest  and  heartiest  jokes  he  had  ever  heard.  'Is 
that  all?  Why,  man,  it's  nothing.  Put  it  on  my  back; 
and  as  much  more  as  you  please:  as  much  as  the  Bank  of 
England  contains.  Why,  I  can  bear  it  all.  Nothing 
makes  any  difference  now.  Tell  her  she  is  quite  welcome 
to  double  it,  if  she  can  get  the  credit.  It's  all  one  to  me/ 

'  That  is  what  I  came  to  tell  you/ 

'  Very  good,  gaol-bird.  Probus  very  nearly  succeeded, 
did  he  not?  You  felt  a  kind  of  a  tightening  about  the  neck, 
I  suppose.  Never  mind.  Don't  be  disappointed.  I  dare 
say  you  will  go  to  Tyburn  after  all.  You  are  young  yet, 
and  then  the  fortune  will  come  to  me  —  and  we  shall  see  - 
we  shall  see ' — he  drank  another  glass  of  Nantes — 'we 
shall  see What  was  I  going  to  say?' 

So  I  left  him  and  went  on  my  way  to  Newgate. 

Jenny  was  in  conference  with  her  attorney. 

'  Come  in,  Will.  I  have  no  secrets  from  my  cousin,  Mr. 
Dewberry.  Now,  if  you  please,  give  me  your  opinion/ 

'First,  then,  if  you  plead  Not  Guilty  — what  can  they 
prove  against  you?  That  certain  things  were  found  in 


Out  of  the  Frying  Pan  Into  the  Fire    243 

your  garrets?  How  did  they  get  there?  A  wretched, 
revengeful  drab  says  that  your  mother  and  sister  put  them 
there.  Is  her  word  to  be  believed?  She  is  the  sweetheart 
of  a  conspirator  and  presumably  a  highwayman,  whom 
you  have  been  instrumental  in  consigning  to  a  prison,  with 
probably  a  severe  punishment  to  follow.  Where  are  your 
mother  and  sister?  They  are  gone  away?  Where?  You 
cannot  be  asked.  But  you  do  not  know.  Why?  To 
escape  the  revenge  of  the  mob  who  have  wrecked  their 
house.  Very  well.  There  the  case  ends  —  and  breaks 
down/ 

'  Not  so.  It  does  not  break  down.  My  mother  has 
long  been  known  as  the  greatest  receiver  in  the  trade.  She 
bought  more  and  sold  more  than  anybody  else.  The  Court 
dressmakers  came  to  her  to  buy  her  lace  and  her  embroid- 
ery for  the  great  Court  Ladies.  Why,  she  is  the  most 
notorious  woman  in  London.  If  I  am  acquitted,  they  will 
get  up  a  Hue  and  Cry  for  her,  and  they  will  certainly  find  her. 
And  then  there  isn't  a  thief  in  prison  or  out  who  will  not 
give  evidence  against  her,  after  the  evidence  she  has  given 
against  the  thieves.  And  as  for  Doll  —  my  sister's  name  is 
Doll  —  in  order  to  save  her  own  skin,  she  will  most  cer- 
tainly be  ready  to  give  evidence  to  the  effect  that  I  bought 
the  things  of  my  mother  and  paid  for  them.  Which  I  did. 
As  I  told  you/  " 

'You  never  told  me  so.  I  don't  know  that  it  matters 
much.  I  am  only  trying  to  see  my  way  to  an  acquittal. 
And  considering  there  is  nobody  but  that  woman  to  testify 
to  the  conveyance  of  the  goods,  really,  I  think  there  ought 
to  be  no  doubt  as  to  the  result/ 

'  Mr.  Dewberry/  Jenny  laid  her  hand  upon  his  arm. 
'.Understand  me.  I  have  been  kept  down,  all  my  life,  by 
my  origin.  As  soon  as  this  business  is  over  I  shall  try  in 
some  way  or  other  to  get  clear  away  from  them  all  —  Oh ! 
what  an  origin  it  is!  Oh,  how  I  have  always  envied  the 
children  of  honest  parents.  Why  —  my  father ' 

'  Dear  lady,  do  not  speak  of  these  things/ 

'Well,  then,  my  cousins  —  I  mean  those  of  them  who 
are  not  yet  hanged  —  live  in  the  courts  and  blind  alleys  of 
St.  Giles.  I  have  no  longer  any  patience  with  them  —  it 
makes  me  wretched  to  think  of  them,  and  it  humiliates  me 
to  go  among  them  because  I  have  to  become  again  one  of 
them  and  I  do  it  so  easily.  Well,  Sir,  I  am  what  I  am: 


244  The  Orange  Girl 

yet  strange  as  it  may  seem  to  you  —  I  will  not  lend  my  help 
to  getting  my  mother  and  sister  hanged/ 

Mr.  Dewberry  took  her  hand  and  kissed  it  '  Proceed, 
Madame,'  he  said  gravely. 

'If,  then,  I  plead  Guilty,  the  woman's  evidence  will  be 
received  without  any  dispute  or  discussion,  and  when  sen- 
tence is  passed,  the  case  will  be  closed.  No  one,  afterwards, 
will  venture  to  charge  my  mother  with  that  crime/ 

'I  suppose  not.  But  the  sentence,  Madame,  the  sen- 
tence!' 

She  shuddered.  *  I  know  what  the  sentence  will  be. 
But  I  am  not  afraid.  I  have  friends  who  will  come  to  my 
assistance/ 

In  fact  one  of  them  appeared  at  that  very  moment.  He 
was  a  gentleman  of  a  singularly  sweet  and  pleasant  coun- 
tenance, on  which  kindness,  honour,  and  loyalty  were 
stamped  without  the  least  uncertainty.  He  was  dressed 
very  finely  in  a  satin  coat  and  waistcoat,  and  he  wore  a 
sash  and  a  star. 

'  Divine  Jenny ! '  he  said,  taking  her  hand  and  kissing  it. 
'  Is  it  possible  that  I  find  thee  in  such  a  place  and  in  such 
a  situation  as  this?' 

Jenny  suffered  her  hand  to  remain  in  his.  When  I 
think  of  her  and  of  her  behaviour  at  this  juncture  I  am 
amazed  at  her  power  of  acting.  She  represented,  not  her 
own  feelings,  which  were  those  of  the  greatest  disgust 
towards  her  nearest  relations  (to  whom  one  is  taught  to 
pay  respect),  but  the  feelings  which  she  wished  Lord  Brock- 
enhurst,  and,  through  him,  the  world  at  large,  should 
believe  of  her. 

In  her  left  hand  she  held  a  white  lace  handkerchief, 
scented  with  some  delicate  perfume:  the  woman  was  one 
of  those  who  are  never  without  some  subtle  fragrance  which 
seemed  to  belong  to  her,  naturally.  This  handkerchief  she 
applied  to  her  eyes  —  from  time  to  time :  they  were  dry,  to 
my  certain  knowledge  but  the  act  was  the  outward  sem- 
blance of  weeping. 

'  My  Lord,'  said  Jenny,  '  this  gentleman  is  my  cousin  — 
not  of  St.  Giles  —  my  husband's  cousin  —  My  husband, 
however,  I  cannot  suffer  to  approach  me.  This  other  gen- 
tleman is  Mr.  Dewberry,  of  Great  St.  Thomas  Apostle  in 
the  City  of  London,  attorney  at  Law.  They  are  consider- 
ing my  case  with  me.  By  your  Lordship's  permission  we 


Out  of  the  Frying  Pan  Into  the  Fire    245 

will  renew  our  conference  in  your  presence.  If,  on  the 
other  hand,  you  would  prefer  to  hear,  alone,  what  I  have  to 
state,  they  will  leave  us.' 

'  I  am  in  your  hands,  Jenny/  he  kissed  her  hand  again 
and  let  it  go.  '  My  sole  desire  is  to  be  of  service.  Pray 
remember,  Jenny,  that  whatever  I  promise  I  try  to  per- 
form. All  the  service  that  I  can  render  you  in  this  time 
of  trouble  is  at  your  command/ 

I  placed  a  chair  for  him  and  looked  to  Jenny  to  begin. 

She  sat  down  and  buried  her  face  in  her  hands  while  we 
all  waited. 

'  My  Lord/  she  rose  at  last  and  continued  standing,  '  I 
once  told  you  —  at  a  time  when  it  was  impossible  to  con- 
ceal anything  from  you,  that  I  was  originally  an  Orange 
Girl  at  the  Theatre  where  you  honoured  me  frequently 
by  witnessing  my  humble  performances/ 

'  Say,  rather,  Jenny,  inspired  performances/ 

She  bowed  her  head,  like  some  queen.  '  If  your  Lord- 
ship pleases.  I  also  told  you  that  my  parents  were  of  the 
very  lowest  —  so  low  that  one  can  get  no  lower/ 

'  You  did/ 

'  Now,  my  Lord,  I  am  accused  of  receiving  stolen  prop- 
erty in  my  house,  knowing  the  property  to  be  stolen/ 

'Oh!     Monstrous!     Most  monstrous! ' 

'  My  accuser  is  a  girl  whose  sweetheart  is  now  by  my 
evidence  and  the  evidence  of  others  lying  in  this  prison 
beside  me,  on  a  charge  of  conspiracy.  With  the  girl  it  is 
an  act  of  revenge.  She  would  tell  you  as  much.  The 
mob,  also  in  revenge  for  exposing  a  most  diabolical  plot, 
has  wrecked  and  sacked  my  mother's  house  in  St.  Giles's 
and  my  own  in  Soho  Square.  They  have  destroyed  all  that 
I  possessed.  I  am  therefore  ruined.  But  that  is  nothing. 
On  the  stage  we  care  very  little  about  losing  or  gaining 
money.  This  woman  has  now  brought  a  charge  against 
me  which  I  blush  even  to  name/ 

'  .You  have  only  to  deny  the  charge,  Jenny.  There  is 
not  a  man  in  London  who  would  doubt  the  word  of  the 
incomparable  Jenny  Wilmot/ 

She  bowed  her  head  again.     '  I  would  I  could  think  so/ 

She  made  as  if  she  would  go  on;  then  stopped  and 
hesitated,  looking  down  as  if  in  doubt  and  shame. 

'  My  Lord,  I  will  put  the  case  to  you  quite  plainly.  Mr. 
Dewberry  is  of  opinion  that  the  result,  if  the  matter  is 


246  The  Orange  Girl 

brought  before  the  court  will  certainly  be  decided  in  my 
favour/ 

'  I  am  certain  on  the  point/  said  the  Attorney.  '  I  beg 
your  Lordship's  pardon  for  my  interruption.' 

'Oh!  Sir,  who  has  a  better  right  to  interrupt?'  He 
turned  again  to  Jenny,  whom  he  devoured  with  his  eyes. 
Truly  if  ever  any  man  was  in  love  it  was  Lord  Brocken- 
hurst. 

'  If  I  were  acquitted/  she  went  on.  '  Indeed,  I  believe 
I  should  be  acquitted  —  but  the  case  would  not  be  ended 
by  that  acquittal.  Suppose,  my  Lord  —  I  put  a  case  —  it 
need  not  be  mine ' —  she  plucked  at  the  lace  of  her  hand- 
kerchief as  if  deeply  agitated  — '  I  say,  it  need  not  be  my 
own  case  —  I  suppose  a  case.  Such  a  charge  is  brought 
against  a  person  —  perhaps  innocent.  She  is  acquitted  — 
But  the  charge  remains.  It  will  then  be  brought  against 
the  real  criminal.  Out  of  revenge  every  thief  in  St.  Giles's 
would  crowd  in  to  give  evidence.  That  person's  fate  would 
be  certain.  She  would  be  —  she  would  be  —  your  Lord- 
ship will  spare  me  the  word.'  Again  she  covered  her  eyes. 
Then  she  lifted  her  head  again  and  went  on.  '  I  know  that 
the —  person  — is  guilty  —  She  deserves  nothing  short  of 
what  the  law  provides.  Yet  reflect,  my  Lord.  Born 
among  rogues:  brought  up  among  rogues:  without  educa- 
tion and  moral  principles,  or  honour,  or  religion,  can  one 
wonder  if  such  a  person  turns  to  crime?  And  can  you 
wonder,  my  Lord ' —  again  she  sank  into  a  chair  and  cov- 
ered her  face  with  her  hands  — '  can  you  wonder  if  the 
daughter  should  resolve  to  save  the  mother's  life,  by  taking 
—  upon  herself  —  the  guilt  —  the  confession  —  the  conse- 
quences of  the  crime?' 

She  was  silent  save  for  a  sob  that  convulsed  her  frame. 
His  Lordship  heard  with  humid  eyes.  When  she  had  fin- 
ished he  rose  with  tears  that  streamed  down  his  face.  For 
a  while  he  could  not  speak.  Then  he  turned  to  Mr.  Dew- 
berry. 

1  Sir/  he  said,  '  tell  me  —  tell  me  —  what  she  means/ 

'  She  means,  my  Lord,  to  plead  Guilty  and  to  take  the 
consequences.  By  so  doing  she  will  save  her  mother  — 
yes,  my  Lord,  her  mother  —  even  at  the  sacrifice  of  her 
own  life/ 

'Oh!'  he  cried,  'it  must  not  be!     Great  Heavens!     It 


Out  of  the  Frying  Pan  Into  the  Fire    247 

must  not  be.  Jenny  —  Jenny  —  thou  art,  I  swear,  an 
angel/ 

'  No,  my  Lord,  no  angel/ 

'  Yes,  an  angel !  Hear  me,  Jenny.  I  will  stand  by  thee. 
The  world  shall  know  —  the  world  that  loves  thee —  By 

the  world  shall  know  what  a  treasure  it  possesses  in 

the  incomparable  Jenny  Wilmot.  As  an  actress  thou  art 
without  an  equal.  As  a  child  —  as  a  daughter  —  history 
records  no  greater  heroism.  Thou  shalt  be  written  down 
in  history  beside  the  woman  who  saved  her  father  from 
starvation  and  the  woman  who  saved  her  husband  from 
the  traitor's  block.  I  can  endure  it  no  longer,  Jenny. 
To-morrow  when  my  spirits  are  less  agitated,  I  will  come 
again/  He  stooped  and  kissed  her  bowed  head  and  so 
left  us. 

A  common  or  vulgar  actress  when  the  man  for  whom 
she  had  been  playing  had  gone,  would  have  laughed  or  in 
some  way  betrayed  herself.  Not  so  Jenny.  She  waited 
a  reasonable  time  after  his  Lordship's  departure  and  then 
lifted  her  head,  placed  her  handkerchief  —  still  dry  —  to  her 
eyes  and  stood  up. 

'  Mr.  Dewberry/  she  said,  '  do  you  agree  with  me  in  the 
line  I  have  resolved  to  take?  ' 

'  Madame,  I  do,'  he  replied  emphatically. 

'And  you,  Will?' 

I  hesitated,  because  I  perceived  that  she  had  been  playing 
a  part.  Yet  an  innocent  part.  She  did  not,  certainly, 
desire  to  bring  her  mother  and  sister  to  a  shameful  end: 
but,  at  the  same  time,  she  did  not  wish  it  to  be  known 
that  she  had  really  paid  for  the  property  and  ordered  its 
removal  to  her  own  house:  she  did  not  regard  the  landlady 
of  the  Black  Jack  with  all  the  filial  affection  (not  to  speak 
of  respect)  which  her  emotion  undoubtedly  conveyed  to  his 
Lordship:  on  the  other  hand,  it  would  serve  her  own  case 
—  as  well  as  her  estimable  mother  —  better  that  she  should 
be  regarded  as  a  voluntary  victim  to  save  a  parent  than 
that  she  should  be  acquitted  in  order  to  give  place  to  her 
mother  who  would  certainly  be  convicted. 

'  I  agree,  Jenny  —  I  agree/  I  answered. 

'  Sir/  said  Mr.  Dewberry  as  we  walked  away, '  I  have  often 
heard  Miss  Jenny  Wilmot  described  as  an  incomparable 
actress.  I  am  now  convinced  of  the  fact/ 


248  The  Orange  Girl 


CHAPTER  XVI 

THE  SNARE  WHICH   THEY   DIGGED   FOR   OTHERS 

THE  same  day  on  leaving  Jenny,  the  Turnkey  who  con- 
ducted me  to  the  gate,  offered  me  congratulations  —  rather 
gruff  and  even  forced  —  on  the  turn  things  had  taken. 

'  I  assure  you,  Sir,'  he  said  with  feeling,  '  that  we  know 

generally   beforehand  what  will  happen,   and  we'd   quite 

made  up  our  minds  as  to  your  case,  spite  of  Madame's 

interest.     There  didn't  seem  any  doubt.     Some  of  us  are 

'a  bit  disappointed:  we  don't  like,  you  see,  for  anyone  to 

slip  out.     Well :   there's  always  disappointments.     Would 

you  like  to  cast  an  eye  on  your  friends  —  them  that  hatched 

that  pretty  plot?     Come  this  way,  then.     I  wouldn't  like 

( to  be  in  their  shoes  if  it  comes  to  Pillory  —  and  it  will.' 

So  he  led  me  out  of  the  passage  into  one  of  the  yards. 
At  the  sight  of  the  place  my  heart  sank  to  think  how  I 
had  myself  trodden  those  flagstones  and  stepped  from  side 
to  side  of  those  dismal  walls.  The  place  was  the  Master's 
side:  there  were  twenty  prisoners  or  more  in  it.  One  or 
two  were  sitting  on  the  stone  bench  drinking  beer  and 
smoking  tobacco:  one  was  playing  a  game  of  fives  by 
himself.  My  two  principal  witnesses,  the  Bishop  and  his 
friend  the  Captain,  were  walking  side  by  side,  both  in 
irons.  Mr.  Probus  sat  in  a  corner  his  head  hanging  down: 
taking  no  notice  of  anything.  Mr.  Merridew  walked  by 
himself  with  an  assumption  of  being  in  the  wrong  place 
by  accident  and  with  an  air  of  importance,  the  prisoners 
making  way  for  him  right  and  left,  for  the  terror  of  his 
name  accompanied  him  even  into  Newgate. 

The  turnkey  called  him.  'Merridew/  he  said,  with 
familiarity.  '  Come  and  see  the  young  gentleman  you  tried 
to  hang.  Now  he'll  hang  you.  That's  curious,  isn't  it? 
Here  we  go  up,'  he  turned  to  me  with  a  philosophic  smile, 
'  and  here  we  go  down.' 

'  Sir,'  Mr.  Merridew  obeyed  the  call  and  approached  me, 
bowing  with  great  humility.  His  cringing  salute  was 
Almost  as  nauseous  as  the  impudent  brutality  which  he 


Out  of  the  Frying  Pan  Into  the  Fire    249 

had  shown  in  the  Thieves'  Kitchen.  '  Sir,  I  am  pleased 
to  make  your  honoured  acquaintance.  I  hardly  expected, 
in  this  place  where  I  am  confined  by  accident ' 

'  Oh !  Sir,  I  did  not  come  here  to  make  your  acquaintance, 
believe  me/ 

'  Sir,  I  am  pleased  to  have  speech  with  you,  even  in  this 
place,  and  if  only  to  remove  a  misunderstanding  which 
seems  to  have  arisen  regarding  my  part  in  the  late  unhappy 
business.  If  you  will  kindly  remember,  Sir,  I  merely  testi- 
fied to  what  I  saw,  being  an  accidental  eye-witness.  The 
night  was  dark:  there  was  a  scuffle.  You  will  bear  me  out, 
Sir  —  so  far  —  a  scuffle  —  whether  you  were  attacking  that 
fellow ' —  he  pointed  to  the  Bishop  who  with  his  friend  the 
Captain  was  now  looking  on  —  'or  that  other  fellow ' —  he 
indicated  the  Captain  — '  villains  both,  Sir, —  both  —  who, 
but  for  my  mistaken  kindness,  would  have  been  hanged 
long  ago  —  I  cannot  exactly  say.  I  may  have  been  —  per- 
haps—  we  all  make  mistakes  —  too  ready  to  believe  the 
other  side,  and  what  they  said.  Howrever,  that  is  all  over 
and,  of  course,  I  shall  be  set  free  in  an  hour  or  two.  With 
expressions  of  sorrow,  for  an  undeserved  imprisonment 
'  He  looked  in  my  face  for  some  expression  of  sym- 
pathy but,  I  believe,  found  none.  '  No  malice,  Sir,  I  hope.' 
He  held  out  the  abominable  hand  which  was  steeped  in  the 
blood  of  his  victims  and  rank  with  the  stink  of  his  wicked- 
ness. '  I  hope,  Sir,  that  if  the  case  comes  to  trial,  I  may 
not  see  you  among  the  prosecutors.'  I  maintained  silence 
and  took  no  notice  of  his  proffered  hand.  '  But  indeed,  I 
shall  certainly  be  out  in  an  hour  or  two:  or  perhaps  a  day 
or  two.  My  case  has  not  yet,  perhaps,  been  laid  before 
the  authorities.  I  am  here  as  a  mere  matter  of  form.  Ha! 
—  form  —  in  fact  I  have  no  business  here  —  no  business 
at  all  —  no  business.'  His  voice  sank  to  a  whisper,  showing 
the  real  agitation  of  his  mind. 

'  Mr.  Merridew,  I  have  not  come  here  with  any  desire 
to  converse  with  you.' 

'  You  are  not  going  to  bear  malice,  Mr.  Halliday?  Be 
content  with  exposing  two  villains.  Two  will  be  enough 
If  you  want  more  there  is  Probus.  He's  an  extra- 
ordinary villain.  As  for  you,  Sir,  consider:  you  are  a  for- 
tunate man,  Sir.  You  ought  to  be  in  the  condemned  cell. 
You  have  got  off  against  all  expectation,  and  when  every- 
body, to  a  man,  thought  it  was  a  certainty.  Had  I  been 


250  The  Orange  Girl 

consulted  by  your  sweetheart  I  should  have  advised  her, 
Sir,  I  should,  indeed,  so  strong  a  case  was  it  —  to  my 
experienced  mind,  Sir,  I  should  have  advised  her,  Sir,  to 
buy  the  cap  and  the  ribbons  and  the  nosegay  and  the 
Orange  —  Oh!  a  fortunate  man,  indeed! ' 

As  if  he  had  had  nothing  whatever  to  do  with  the  case! 
As  if  there  had  been  no  Conspiracy! 

I  was  turning  away  in  disgust,  when  the  other  pair  of 
villains  drew  near.  I  prepared  for  some  volley  of  abuse 
and  foul  language,  but  was  disappointed.  They  addressed 
me,  it  seemed  in  no  spirit  of  hostility,  but  quite  the  con- 
trary. They  were  lamb  like. 

'Sir/  said  the  Bishop,  'what  was  done  by  my  friend 
the  Captain  and  myself  was  done  by  orders  of  Mr.  Merridew 
here.  He  said,  "  Do  it,  or  swing."  So  we  had  no  choice. 
Merridew  gave  us  the  orders  and  Probus  invented  the  plot. 
"  Do  it  or  swing,"  was  the  word.' 

'You  shall  swing,  too/  the  Thief  taker  turned  upon  him 
savagely,  '  as  soon  as  I  get  out.  A  pair  of  villains,  not  fit 
to  live/ 

'You  won't  hang  anybody  any  more/  said  the  Captain, 
with  defiance.  '  Your  own  time's  up  at  last,  Merridew. 
Your  own  rope  has  come  to  an  end.' 

'  Wait  till  I  get  out.     Wait  till  I  get  out/  he  roared. 

'That  won't  be  just  yet,  brother/  said  the  turnkey. 
'  Conspiracy's  an  ugly  word,  friend  Merridew.  There's 
imprisonment  in  it  —  and  flogging,  sometimes  —  and  pil- 
lory. But  make  up  your  mind  for  a  long  stay  and  be 
comfortable.' 

'  Dick/  said  Mr.  Merridew.  He  knew  every  turnkey  as 
well  as  most  of  the  prisoners.  It  was  said  that  he  often  had 
to  go  shares  with  the  turnkeys.  '  Dick,  you  know  me,  of 
old.' 

'Ay  —  ay  —  We  all  know  you/ 

'  We've  worked  together ' 

'That  is  as  may  be.     But  go  on/ 

'Well,  Dick,  I  am  a  sheriff's  officer.  I  know  all  the 
rogues  in  London,  don't  I?  ' 

'  Why,  certainly/ 

'  I  know  where  to  lay  my  hands  upon  every  one.  I 
know  where  they  practise  and  what  they  do/ 

'  Correct/  said  the  turnkey. 

'They  don't  dare  to  lock  me  up.     Do  they?    Lock  me 


Out  of  the  Frying  Pan  Into  the  Fire    251 

up?'  he  snorted.  '  Why,  if  I  am  kept  here  long,  all  the 
villains  will  go  free.  London  will  no  longer  be  safe. 
There  won't  be  fifty  hangings  in  a  year.  Who  fills  your 
gaols?  John  Merridew.  Who  fills  your  carts?  John 
Merridew.  You  know  that,  Dick.  Nobody  knows  better 
than  you/ 

'  Correct/  said  Dick. 

'The  judges  can't  send  me  to  prison.  They  can't  do  it, 

I  say.  Why  —  of  course  —  of  course '  Again  his 

voice  sank  to  a  whisper. 

I  looked  at  the  man  with  amazement.  He  was  evidently 
seeking  consolation  by  delusive  assurances.  At  heart  he 
was  filled  with  terror.  For  beside  the  prison,  there  was 
the  dread  of  pillory.  They  might  be  set  in  pillory.  He 
knew,  none  better,  that  the  thief-taker  who  is  also  the 
thief-maker,  has  not  a  single  friend  in  the  whole  world. 
What  would  be  done  to  him  if  he  should  stand  in  pillory? 

'  Let  me  get  out  as  soon  as  possible/  he  went  on,  appeal- 
ing to  me.  '  Why,  Sir,  unless  I  go  out  the  whole  criminal 
procedure  of  this  country  will  be  thrown  out  of  gear.  I 
am  the  only  man  —  the  only  man,  Sir  —  ask  Dick,  here/ 
The  turnkey  shook  his  keys  and  nodded. 

'  But  they'll  give  you  a  heavy  sentence,  my  friend/  he 
said. 

'  The  only  man  that  can't  be  spared  —  the  only  man  — 

the  only  man '  Again  his  voice  dropped  to  a  whisper. 

He  turned  away  babbling  and  shaking  his  head,  all  the 
insolence  gone  out  of  him. 

'  His  power  is  gone/  said  the  Bishop.  '  He  won't  get 
any  more  rewards/ 

'  Yes/  said  the  turnkey.  '  But  he  has  had  a  long  innings. 
Why,  he  must  be  nearly  fifty.  There's  a  many  would  envy 
Merridew/ 

The  Bishop  once  more  addressed  himself  to  me.  '  Sir/ 
he  said,  '  I  grieve  to  hear  that  our  friends  wrecked  the 
Black  Jack  and  Madame's  house.  I  fear  these  acts  of 
violence  may  make  you  vindictive/ 

'  Madame  herself  was  brought  in  yesterday  —  for  receiv- 
ing stolen  goods/ 

'  Madame?  Madame  brought  here?  On  a  charge ? ? 

The  Bishop's  face  expressed  the  liveliest  concern. 

'Why/  said  the  Captain.  'It's '  A  motion  of  his 

fingers  to  his  throat  showed  what  he  meant. 


252  The  Orange  Girl 

'  Nothing  could  have  been  more  disastrous/  said  the 
Bishop.  '  Believe  me,  Sir,  we  have  nothing  to  do  with  the 
wreck  of  the  houses,  and  we  were  ignorant  of  this  charge, 
I  assure  you,  Sir.  Oh!  This  is  a  great  misfortune!' 

The  misfortune,  it  appeared,  lay  in  the  danger  —  nay,  the 
certainty,  that  this  persecution  would  make  both  Madame 
and  myself  more  vindictive.  Now  the  events  of  the  Trial, 
when  at  a  word,  as  it  seemed,  from  Madame  —  witnesses 
sprang  up  in  a  cloud  to  confront  them  with  their  villainy, 
made  them  believe  that  she  had  friends  everywhere. 

'  It  cannot  be/  said  the  Bishop,  '  but  she  will  get  off. 
Who  is  the  principal  evidence?' 

'Ask  the  Captain.     And  that  is  enough/ 

I  stepped  across  the  yard  and  laid  my  ringer  on  Probus's 
shoulder  as  he  sat  with  bowed  form  and  hanging  head. 
He  looked  up  with  lack-lustre  eyes.  I  believe  that  the  loss 
of  his  money  and  the  result  of  his  conspiracy  had  affected 
his  brain,  for  he  seemed  to  pay  no  heed  to  anything. 

'  Mr.  Probus/  I  said.  '  I  must  tell  you  that  my  cousin 
is  now  bankrupt.' 

He  stared  without  any  look  of  recognition. 

'  Mr.  Probus/  I  repeated,  '  my  cousin  Matthew  is  a  bank- 
rupt. I  tell  you,  in  order  that  you  may  send  in  your  claim 
with  those  of  the  other  creditors.' 

'  Ay  —  ay  — '  he  replied.     '  Very  like.' 

'  Bankrupt ! '  I  said  again.  '  Even  had  you  succeeded  in 
your  plot  you  would  have  been  too  late/ 

He  nodded  without  attention. 

'  And  another  mass  of  debts  has  been  added.  His  wife's 
house  has  been  wrecked  by  the  mob  and  all  her  property 
destroyed.  Therefore  her  liabilities  have  been  presented 
to  her  husband/ 

'  All  gone ! '  he  moaned.  '  All  gone !  The  work  of  an 
honest  lifetime  wasted  and  thrown  away.  Nothing  will 
ever  be  recovered/ 

'  Mr.  Probus/  I  said,  *  the  money  is  gone.  That  is  most 
true.  But  more  than  that  is  gone.  Your  character — your 
honour  —  it  is  all  gone  —  wasted  and  thrown  away — none 
of  it  will  be  recovered/ 

'  All  gone  —  all  gone/  he  repeated. 

The  turnkey  stood  beside  me.  '  Queer,  isnt'  it?'  he 
said.  'He's  lost  his  money  and  his  wits  have  gone  after 
it.  A  money  lender,  he  was.  He's  put  more  poor  folk 


Out  of  the  Frying  Pan  Into  the  Fire    253 

into  the  Fleet  and  the  King's  Bench  than  his  friend  Merri- 
dew  has  put  prisoners  here.  And  he  ought  to  be  thinking 
of  something  else  —  his  trial  and  his  sentence/ 

'  His  sentence?' 

'  Well  —  you  see,  Merridew,  he  knows.  This  one  doesn't. 
The  Bishop,  he  knows  —  and  the  Captain  —  and  they  don't 
like  it.  This  man  doesn't  care.  For  you  see  they  will 
certainly  have  to  stand  in  Pillory  —  and  if  the  mob  don't 
love  money  lenders  they  love  thief  takers  less,  and  Merri- 
dew's  the  most  notorious  thief  taker  in  town.  Well — it's 
a  wonderful  country  for  Law  and  Justice.  Now,  I  suppose 
they  poor  French  would  be  content  to  hang  up  a  man  at 
once.  We  don't.  We  give  'em  an  hour's  ride  in  a  cart 
where  they  sometimes  gets  roses  but  more  often  gets  addled 
eggs.  Or  we  put  'em  in  pillory  where  they  may  get  dead 
cats  or  they  may  get  flints  and  broken  bottles.' 

I  came  away.  The  heavy  gate  closed:  the  key  turned 
in  the  lock ;  the  four  wretches  were  shut  in  once  more,  there, 
at  least,  the  prey  to  the  keenest  terrors,  dying  a  thousand 
deaths  before  they  should  be  taken  out  for  the  dead  cats 
and  the  addled  eggs  and  perhaps  the  flints  and  broken 
bottles. 


CHAPTER  XVII 

THE  CASE  OF  CLARINDA 

THE  town  has  notoriously  a  short  memory,  yet  I  doubt  if 
there  be  any  still  living  who  remember  the  year  1760  and 
have  forgotten  the  case  of  Jenny  Wilmot.  For,  indeed,  no 
one  for  some  time  talked  of  anything  else.  There  were 
armies  in  the  field:  these  were  forgotten;  there  were  fleets 
and  naval  battles  and  expeditions:  these  were  forgotten; 
there  was  the  strife  of  party:  that  was  forgotten;  there 
were  the  anxieties  of  trade:  they  were  forgotten;  there 
were  scandals  among  the  aristocracy:  they  were  forgotten; 
there  was  the  new  play;  the  new  poem:  all  were  clean 
forgotten  and  neglected  while  the  town  talked  at  my  Lady's 
breakfast  or  Moll  King's  tavern  of  Jenny  Wilmot;  Jenny 
Wilmot;  Jenny  Wilmot.  The  world  at  first  could  find 
nothing  too  bad  to  say  or  think  of  her.  At  the  clubs  they 


254  The  Orange  Girl 

suspended  their  play  while  they  listened  to  the  latest  rumour 
about  Jenny.  At  the  coffee-houses  every  quidnunc  and 
gobemouche  brought  a  new  story  which  he  had  heard  and 
transmitted  with  embroideries;  or  else  a  trifling  variation  in 
the  old  story  to  communicate. 

People  remembered  how  she  disappeared  mysteriously 
from  the  stage  a  year  or  two  before  this  catastrophe!  —  Ha! 
what  a  proof  of  wickedness  was  that!  Why,  it  was  now 
known  that  she  was  none  other  than  Madame  Vallance 
who  provided  the  masquerades  and  the  Assemblies  in  Soho 
Square  and  was  never  seen  by  the  company  except  in  a 
domino.  There  was  another  illustration  of  her  wicked 
disposition!  It  was  also  recalled,  for  the  benefit  of  those 
who  did  not  remember  the  fact,  that  she  had  been  an 
Orange  Girl  at  Drury  before  she  was  promoted  to  the 
stage.  What  could  be  expected  of  an  Orange  Girl?  And 
now  it  was  actually  brought  to  light  —  could  one  believe 
it!  —  it  was  actually  discovered  —  had  she  not  herself  con- 
fessed it? — that  her  mother  and  sister  kept  a  tavern  in 
St.  Giles's,  a  place  of  resort  for  the  lowest;  a  mere  thieves' 
kitchen;  the  rendezvous  of  highwaymen,  foot-pads,  pick- 
pockets and  rogues  of  every  description. 

It  was  certain  that  Jenny  had  been  born  and  brought  up 
in  this  vile  receptacle  or  Temple  of  Vice.  Many  people 
were  found  who  had  recollections  of  Jenny  as  a  child  play- 
ing in  the  gutter,  or  on  the  steps  of  St.  Giles's  Church. 
These  recollections  were  of  an  edifying  nature.  One  gen- 
tleman, of  an  aspect  which  we  call  smug  —  somewhat 
resembling,  in  fact,  my  cousin  Matthew  at  his  earliest  and 
best  —  related  in  my  hearing  that  he  had  addressed  the 
child,  and  on  hearing  that  her  ambition  was  to  become  an 
Orange  Girl  at  Drury  Lane  Theatre,  had  warned  her 
against  the  perils  of  that  path;  unhappily  without  effect, 
except  that  while  he  was  exhorting  her  to  a  godly  life,  his 
tears  were  checked  by  the  theft  of  his  pocket-handkerchief. 
And  so  on:  and  so  on;  because  the  occasion  gave  an  oppor- 
tunity for  securing  a  momentary  distinction,  and  when  the 
imagination  is  fired  the  tongue  is  loosed. 

Again,  there  is  in  the  English  mind  something  particu- 
larly repellant  in  the  life  and  the  acts  of  the  informer.  Now 
it  cannot  be  denied  that  in  my  Trial,  Jenny  figured  as  one 
who  had  turned  against  her  old  friends  and  associates;  had 
used  her  knowledge  to  secure  their  arrest;  and  had  induced 


Out  of  the  Frying  Pan  Into  the  Fire    255 

her  mother  and  sister  and  at  least  one  of  the  rogues  of  the 
Black  Jack,  to  join  her  in  giving  evidence  against  the 
conspirators.  So  that  when  the  news  was  spread  abroad 
that  her  house,  as  well  as  the  Black  Jack,  had  been  wrecked 
and  the  contents  destroyed  there  was  at  first  a  strong  feeling 
among  many  that  this  was  a  kind  of  wild  justice  which 
she  deserved,  because  she  ought  not  to  have  turned  against 
her  friends.  As  for  the  man  for  whose  sake  she  did  it,  you 
may  be  sure  that  the  motive  commonly  attributed  to  her 
was  such  as  would  naturally  commend  itself  to  the  majority. 
That  any  woman  should  be  so  deeply  moved  by  generosity 
of  heart,  by  love  of  justice,  by  honest  indignation  against 
so  foul  a  conspiracy  as  to  resolve,  at  all  risks  and  hazards,  to 
defeat  the  object  of  the  villains,  and  to  prevent  the  destruc- 
tion of  an  innocent  man,  required  too  high  a  flight  to  make 
it  possible  to  be  considered  by  the  common  sort  —  I  mean, 
not  the  poor,  but  the  common  sort  of  '  respectable '  bur- 
gesses; the  folk  of  the  coffee-house  and  the  club.  The 
world  always  accepts  the  worst  where  it  ought  to  believe 
the  best.  And  the  wickedness  of  the  natural  man  is  never 
so  strongly  demonstrated  as  when  he  is  searching  for 
motives.  In  a  word,  it  was  pretended  and  believed,  that  in 
order  to  rescue  her  lover  —  a  broken-down  gentleman  and 
a  highwayman  —  from  the  charge  of  robbery,  which  could 
only  be  proved  by  the  witnesses  taking  false  names,  in  order 
to  protect  themselves,  being  unfortunately  rogues  them- 
selves, she  brought  a  charge  against  them  of  conspiracy  and 
exposed  their  true  names  and  their  history,  which  she  could 
only  effect  by  the  knowledge  she  got  from  the  Black  Jack 
and  the  assistance  of  her  mother:  that  her  lover,  it  was 
true,  was  cast  loose  upon  the  world  again ;  but  that  the  inno- 
cence of  those  four  persons,  including  one  most  respectable 
attorney  would  be  established  as  the  noonday  clear  at  the 
ensuing  Criminal  Court  at  the  Old  Bailey. 

Further,  it  was  spread  abroad  that  Jenny  had  been 
arrested,  at  her  lover's  house  in  the  Rules  of  the  King's 
Bench,  that  she  had  been  brought  before  Sir  John  Fielding 
and  had  been  by  him  committed  to  Newgate  on  a  charge  of 
receiving  stolen  goods.  Receiving  stolen  goods!  What, 
however,  could  one  expect  from  St.  Giles's  and  the  daughter 
of  the  Black  Jack?  She  who  must  needs  expose  the  crimes 
of  her  friends  was  now  in  prison  on  a  charge  far  more 
serious  than  theirs.  Receiving  stolen  goods!  Monstrous! 


256  The  Orange  Girl 

And  one  who  entertained  eren  R — 1  P — s  at  her  Assemblies! 
And  she  was  all  the  time  acting  with  her  mother  in  receiving 
stolen  goods!  After  this,  what  pity  could  one  feel  even  for 
a  woman  so  beautiful  and  so  engaging  as  Jenny  Wilmot? 
But  was  she  so  beautiful?  Some  of  the  men  raised  this 
question.  Painted  for  the  stage:  all  artificial.  Was  she 
engaging?  She  played  as  she  was  taught:  she  smiled  and 
laughed  as  she  was  told  to  smile  and  laugh.  That  is  not 
true  acting.  Alas !  Poor  Jenny !  Poor  favourite  of  the 
town,  how  wert  'thou  fallen!  And  certainly  for  a  day  or 
two  the  reputation  of  Jenny  was  very  low  indeed. 

Suddenly,  however,  there  came  a  change  —  to  me  most 
welcome,  because  without  doubt  the  mind  of  the  town  was 
poisoned  and  prejudiced  against  Jenny,  in  whose  favour  no 
one  ventured  to  speak. 

The  first  cause  of  the  change  was  due  to  a  paper  —  I 
think,  if  my  memory  serves  me  right,  in  the  Connoisseur. 
In  this  paper  the  '  Case  of  Clarinda '  put  forth  with  great 
skill  and  power  thinly  disguised  the  history  of  Jenny.  I 
venture  to  quote  a  portion  of  that  paper.  As  soon  as  people 
understood  that  it  was  her  history  that  was  told  the  paper 
flew  from  hand  to  hand:  everybody  in  the  coffee-houses 
and  the  taverns  cried  out  for  it  when  they  entered  the  house. 
And  when  it  was  read  a  silence  fell  upon  the  room  and 
shame  upon  all  hearts.  The  author,  I  have  always  under- 
stood, I  know  not  why,  was  my  Lord  Brockenhurst,  though 
he  never  confessed  it. 

The  mottoes  —  there  were  two  —  were  as  follows : 

'  Non  tali  auxilio,  non  defensoribus  istis 
Tempus  eget ; ' 
and 

4  Tandem  desine  matrem  ....  sequi.' 

'The  Case  of  Clarinda,  whose  future  yet  remains  to  be 
determined,  is  one  which  ought  to  reduce  to  humility  those 
who  boast  of  our  civilization  and  the  justice  of  our  institu- 
tions. For,  certainly,  it  will  be  allowed  that  the  first  requi- 
site of  justice  is  that  the  officers  of  the  State  shall  be 
sufficiently  provided  with  intelligence,  with  resources  and 
with  encouragement,  to  search  into  all  cases  of  alleged 
crime,  and  to  take  care  by  ascertaining  especially  the 
private  character  and  previous  history  of  the  witnesses  how 


Out  of  the  Frying  Pan  Into  the  Fire    257 

far  they  are  to  be  credited.  In  a  word,  and  speaking  of 
those  cases  in  which  human  intelligence  can  be  of  avail,  it 
should  be  impossible  for  an  innocent  man  to  be  convicted 
of  any  crime  charged  to  him.  Yet  the  case  of  Clarinda 
shows  that  such  is  the  condition  of  the  times,  such  the  weak- 
ness of  our  criminal  procedure  that  a  conspiracy  as  vile,  as 
villainous,  as  was  ever  concocted  out  of  Hell  would  have 
succeeded  to  the  judicial  murder  of  an  innocent  man,  had 
it  not  been  for  the  activity,  the  courage,  the  lavish  expendi- 
ture of  a  woman  unaided  and  single-handed.  Her  efforts 
have  resulted  in  the  escape  of  the  innocent  man  and  the 
imprisonment  of  the  conspirators.  But  at  what  a  price  for 
herself  ? 

'  Clarinda  is  the  daughter  of  a  widow  who  for  a  long  time 
has  kept  a  tavern  in  that  part  of  the  town  known  as  St. 
Giles's.  It  is  not  pretended  that  the  place  is  the  resort  of 
the  Quality.  There  has  been  nothing,  however,  alleged 
against  the  conduct  of  the  house  or  the  character  of  the 
landlady.  Some  of  the  frequenters  certainly  belonged  to 
the  ranks  of  those  who  live  by  their  wits.  It  is  not  the  case, 
as  alleged  in  some  quarters,  that  Clarinda  was  ever  the 
companion  or  the  friend  of  these  people.  When  she  was 
still  quite  young  she  was  placed  in  the  pit  of  Drury  Lane 
Theatre  as  an  Orange  Girl.  Accident  drew  towards  her 
the  attention  of  the  manager,  who  found  her  clever  and 
attractive  with  a  lovely  face  and  figure,  a  charming  manner, 
and  a  beautiful  voice.  In  a  word,  the  Orange  Girl  was 
transferred  to  the  stage,  and  there  became  the  delight  of 
the  town;  the  greatest  favourite  of  living  actresses. 

1  After  a  time  Clarinda,  as  often  happens  to  actresses, 
grew  weary  of  the  stage,  and  longed  for  a  quiet  life  in  the 
country  far  from  the  lights  and  music  and  applause  of  the 
Theatre. 

'Among  the  many  who  sighed  for  her  was  a  young 
merchant  from  the  city;  he  said  he  was  rich;  he  swore  he 
loved  her;  he  promised  to  take  her  out  of  town  to  a  coun- 
try house  where  she  would  have  a  carriage,  a  garden,  and 
all  that  she  could  desire. 

'  Clarinda  listened.  He  was  grave  in  demeanour;  he  was 
even  austere;  but  this  proved  that  he  was  free  from  the 
vices  of  the  men  she  more  frequently  met.  Clarinda 
accepted  him,  and  they  were  married. 

'She  discovered,  on  the  very  day  of  her  marriage,  that 


258  The  Orange  Girl 

he  had  lied  to  her.  He  was  not  rich,  though  once  he  had 
been  possessed  of  a  large  fortune;  he  was  a  gambler;  he  had 
gambled  away  all  his  money;  he  had  married  her  because 
she  was  lovely;  he  proposed  to  use  her  charms  for  the  pur- 
pose of  attracting  rich  gentlemen  to  his  rooms  where  he 
intended  to  carry  on  a  gaming  table. 

'  Clarinda  on  this  discovery  instantly  left  the  man  in 
disgust;  but  for  the  moment  she  would  not  go  back  to  the 
stage.  She  then  took  a  large  house  in  one  of  the  western 
squares.  She  decorated  and  furnished  this  house,  and  she 
opened  it  for  Masquerades  and  Assemblies.  One  day  she 
received  a  letter  from  two  of  the  frequenters  of  her  mother's 
house.  They  were  in  a  Debtors'  Prison :  they  were  afraid  of 
becoming  known,  in  which  case  not  only  would  other 
detainers  be  put  in,  but  they  might  themselves  be  arrested 
on  some  criminal  charge. 

'  Clarinda,  always  generous,  went  to  the  Prison,  saw  the 
two  men,  and  promised  them  relief.  It  was  an  unfortunate 
act  of  generosity,  which  in  the  end  worked  toward  her  ruin. 

'  In  the  Prison  she  espied  a  young  man  so  closely  resem- 
bling her  own  unworthy  husband  that  she  accosted  him 
r.nd  learned  that  he  was  imprisoned,  probably  for  life,  by 
her  husband  aided  by  Mr.  Vulpes,  an  Attorney,  on  a 
vamped-up  charge  of  debt  with  the  hope  of  making  him 
obtain  his  liberty  by  selling  his  chance  of  succession  to  a 
large  fortune. 

'  She  obtained  the  release  of  this  gentleman,  who,  with 
his  wife,  can  never  cease  to  be  sufficiently  grateful  to  her. 
She  gave  him,  for  he  was  a  fine  musician,  a  place  in  her 
orchestra. 

'  She  then  learned  that  Vulpes,  the  attorney,  together 
with  one  Traditor,  a  Thief  taker,  was  organizing  another 
plot  against  this  already  injured  gentleman.  But  she  was 
unable  to  learn  the  nature  of  the  plot,  except  that  the  two 
Villains  whom  she  had  released  from  Prison  were  involved 
in  it.  The  next  step  was  that  the  gentleman  was  accused 
by  the  whole  party  of  four  as  a  highway  robber,  and  as 
such  was  cast  into  prison. 

'Then  it  was  that  our  Magistrates  should  have  taken  up 
the  case.  Clarinda  repaired  to  Rhadamanthus,  the  Magis- 
trate, and  pointed  out  to  him  the  truth.  He  told  her  that 
he  had  neither  men  nor  money  to  follow  up  the  case. 
Therefore  Clarinda,  at  her  own  expense,  fetched  up  from 


Out  of  the  Frying  Pan  Into  the  Fire    259 

various  country  prisons  turnkeys  and  governors  who  should 
expose  the  character  of  the  witnesses;  she  persuaded  her 
mother  and  sister  to  give  evidence  to  the  same  effect;  in 
order  to  do  this,  she  was  obliged  to  buy  her  mother  out 
of  the  tavern.  She  herself  gave  evidence;  and  she  made 
her  unwilling  husband  give  evidence.  The  result  was  the 
acquittal  of  the  prisoner  and  the  committal  of  the  conspira- 
tors. Not  the  magistrates  of  the  country ;  but  —  Dux 
femina  facti  —  a  woman,  without  assistance,  single-handed, 
at  her  own  private  charges,  has  done  this. 

4  "  Non  tali  auxilio  non  defensoribus  istis 
Tempus  eget." 

'That  the  mob  should,  in  revenge,  wreck  her  house  and 
destroy  her  property  was  to  be  expected  at  a  time  when  we 
cannot  protect  our  streets  in  the  very  day  time.  But  there 
was  more. 

'  Clarinda's  mother  at  the  time  of  the  trial  had  in  her 
keeping  a  certain  quantity  of  stolen  property.  Whether 
she  knew  it  to  be  stolen  or  not  cannot  be  said.  When, 
however,  the  old  woman  accepted  Clarinda's  proposal  that 
she  should  give  evidence  against  the  conspiracy  she  seems 
to  have  thought  that  the  garrets  of  her  daughter's  house 
would  be  a  safe  place  for  storing  these  goods.  She  was 
observed  to  be  conveying  them  by  a  woman,  the  mistress 
of  one  of  the  conspirators.  While  the  house  was  in  the 
hands  of  the  mob,  this  woman  looked  for,  and  found  the 
property  —  a  miserable  paltry  collection  of  rags  —  in  the 
garrets.  For  the  sake  of  revenge  she  brought  information 
against  Clarinda,  who  now  therefore  lies  in  Newgate  wait- 
ing her  trial  at  the  Old  Bailey. 

'  What  should  Clarinda  do?  If  she  pleads  "  Not  Guilty," 
which  under  ordinary  circumstances  she  should  do;  the 
more  so  as  there  is  no  evidence  whatever  to  connect  her 
with  any  knowledge  of  these  rags ;  she  will  be  acquitted ;  but 
then  her  mother  will  be  arrested  and  tried  on  this  capital 
charge.  If,  on  the  other  hand,  she  takes  upon  herself  the 
full  responsibility,  the  mother  escapes  scot  free  while  the 
daughter  may  pay  the  full  penalty  for  the  crime. 

'  The  reader  will  not  think  it  necessary  to  ask  what  course 
will  be  pursued  by  Clarinda.  The  generous  heart  which 
would  risk  all,  sacrifice  all,  'lavish  all,  in  the  cause  of  justice 
and  for  the  rescue  of  a  man  —  not  her  lover,  but  a  worthless 
husband's  cousin  —  from  an  ignominious  and  undeserved 


260  The  Orange  Girl 

death,  will  assuredly  not  hesitate  to  save  her  erring  mother 
even  at  the  risk  of  her  own  life.  That  generous  heart;  that 
noble  heart;  will  be  sustained  and  followed  unto  the  end, 
even  though  justice  demands  the  uttermost  penalty,  by  the 
tears  of  all  who  can  admire  heroic  sacrifice  and  filial 
martyrdom/ 

There  was  more,  but  this  is  enough. 

In  a  single  day  the  voice  of  the  people  veered  round  to 
the  opposite  pole.  It  was  wonderful  how  quickly  opinion 
was  changed.  Jenny,  who  yesterday  had  been  a  traitress; 
a  spy;  a  receiver  of  stolen  goods;  a  hussy  with  no  character; 
suddenly  became  a  heroine ;  a  martyr. 

Then  the  men  remembered  once  more  that  she  was  a 
wonderful  actress;  a  most  charming  woman;  a  most  beau- 
tiful, graceful,  vivacious  creature.  Then,  as  of  old,  men 
recalled  the  evenings  when  as  they  sat  in  the  pit,  Jenny 
seemed  to  have  singled  out  one  by  one  each  for  a  separate 
and  individual  smile,  so  that  they  went  home,  their  heads 
in  the  clouds,  to  dream  of  things  impossible  and  unspeak- 
able, and  all  the  old  love  for  the  Favourite  returned  to  them, 
and  they  panted  for  Jenny  to  be  set  free. 

During  this  time  I  was  with  Jenny  all  day  long  ready 
to  be  of  service  to  her.  The  more  I  observed  her,  the  more 
I  marvelled  at  the  strange  power  which  brought  all  men 
to  their  knees  before  her.  She  had  but  to  smile  upon  them 
and  they  were  conquered.  The  Governor  of  the  Prison 
was  her  servant;  the  turnkeys  were  her  slaves;  her  visitors 
crowded  her  narrow  cell  every  afternoon,  while  Jenny 
received  them  dressed  like  a  Countess  with  the  manner 
of  a  Countess.  Sometimes  I  was  honoured  by  her  com- 
mands to  play  to  them;  tea  and  chocolate  were  served 
daily.  Great  ladies  came  with  the  rest  to  gaze  upon  her; 
actresses,  once  her  rivals,  now  came,  all  rivalry  apart,  to 
weep  over  her;  gentlemen  wrote  her  letters  of  passionate 
love;  portrait  painters  begged  on  their  knees  permission 
to  limn  her  lovely  features.  In  a  word,  for  a  while  the 
centre  of  fashion  was  Jenny's  cell  in  Newgate. 

And  every  day,  among  the  visitors  stood  my  Lord  of 
Brockenhurst,  foremost  in  sympathy  and  truest  in  friend- 
ship. He  was,  indeed,  as  Jenny  had  assured  me,  the  most 
loyal  of  the  gentlemen  and  the  most  sincere  of  friends. 

It  must  be  added  that  Jenny's  time  in  prison  was  not 


Out  of  the  Frying  Pan  Into  the  Fire    261 

wholly  spent  in  converting  a  cell  into  a  drawing-room  of 
fashion.  The  unfortunate  women,  her  fellow-prisoners, 
were  much  worse  off  than  the  men ;  they  had  fewer  friends ; 
they  were  suffered  to  starve  on  the  penny  loaf  a  day,  the 
allowance  of  the  prison.  They  lay  for  the  most  part  in  cold 
and  starvation;  in  rags  and  dirt  and  misery  overwhelming. 
Jenny  went  into  their  yard  and  among  them.  There  was 
the  poor  creature  who  had  caused  her  arrest.  She  was 
half  starved  now.  Jenny  gave  her  food  and  spoke  to  her 
friendly  without  reproach  •  she  sent  food  to  others  who  were 
starving.  She  not  only  fed  them;  she  talked  to  them,  not 
about  their  sins,  because  poor  Jenny  knew  nothing  about 
sins  except  so  far  as  that  certain  deeds  are  punished  by  the 
law;  but  she  talked  to  them,  about  being  clean  and  neat: 
she  revived  the  womanly  instinct  in  them :  made  them  wash 
themselves,  dress  their  hair,  and  take  pleasure  again  in 
making  themselves  attractive.  Never  had  a  woman  a 
keener  sense  of  the  duty  of  women  to  be  beautiful.  She 
made  them  in  a  week  or  two  so  civilized  that  they  left  off 
fighting:  there  was  not  a  black  eye  in  the  place;  and  while 
Jenny  was  in  the  ward  there  was  hardly  so  much  as  a  foul 
word.  It  was  pretty  to  see  how  they  loved  her  and  wel- 
comed her  and  would  have  worked  themselves  to  death  for 
her.  Poor  lost  souls  —  if  indeed  they  are  lost!  They  must 
all  be  dead  now.  The  horrible  gallows  has  killed  some; 
the  gaol  fever,  others;  the  fever  of  bad  food  and  bad  drink 
and  bad  air,  others,  yet  until  the  day  of  death  I  am  sure  that 
all  remembered  Jenny.  Notably,  there  was  her  accuser. 
She  was  sullen  at  first;  she  was  revengeful:  next  she  was 
ashamed  and  turned  aside;  then  she  wept;  and  then  she 
became  like  a  tame  kitten  following  her  through  the  ward, 
hungering  and  thirsting  for  one  more  word  —  one  more 
word  of  friendship  —  from  the  very  woman  whom  she  had 
brought  to  this  place. 


CHAPTER  XVIII 

THE   FALLEN    ALDERMAN 

LET  me  return  to  the  wretched  man  who  had  caused  this 
trouble,    I  learned  that,  although  his  two  fellow-prisoners 


262  The  Orange  Girl 

declared  openly  that  Mr.  Merridew's  power  was  gone  and 
that  he  would  never  again  have  the  power  to  hang  any- 
body, some  of  his  credit  was  still  maintained:  he  pretended 
that  the  books  —  of  which  he  spoke  often  and  with  pride, 
were  still  kept  up,  and  that  every  man's  life  and  liberty 
were  in  his  hands :  and  many  poor  rogues,  thinking  to  curry 
favour,  waited  upon  him  daily,  bringing  him  presents  of 
wine,  tobacco  and  (secretly)  rum,  so  that  he  was  able  to  be 
drunk  and  to  forget  his  anxieties  for  the  greater  part  of  the 
day.  The  two  rebels  against  his  authority,  the  Bishop  and 
the  Captain,  carried  themselves  bravely:  there  is,  indeed,  in 
the  profession  of  the  rogue  something  of  the  soldier,  in 
that  they  both  brave  dangers  without  fear.  The  battle 
field  is  covered  with  the  dead  and  wounded:  but  there  are 
plenty  left  standing  unhurt:  every  soldier  thinks  he  will 
escape:  the  rogue's  field  of  honour  is  covered  with  whip- 
ping-posts, stocks,  pillory,  and  gallows.  It  is  far  more 
dangerous  than  the  field  of  battle.  Yet  every  rogue  hopes 
to  escape,  and  carries  himself  accordingly.  Perhaps  it  is 
better  so.  One  would  not  wish  such  a  crew  to  be  whining 
and  snivelling  and  pretending  repentance  and  imploring 
pity. 

One  day  I  met,  coming  out  of  the  prison,  one  whose 
face  and  appearance  I  knew.  He  was  old  and  bent,  and 
in  rags:  his  woollen  stockings  were  in  holes:  the  elbows  of 
his  coat  were  gone:  his  hat  was  too  limp  to  preserve  its 
shape:  his  buttons  were  off  his  coat  —  he  wore  the  old  jasey 
with  a  broken  pigtail.  I  touched  him  on  the  shoulder. 

'You  are  Mr.  Probus's  clerk?'  I  said. 

'  If  I  am,  Sir,'  he  replied, '  is  that  a  crime?' 

'  No  —  no  —  no.  But  you  remember  me?  You  bade  me 
once  go  throw  myself  into  the  river  with  a  stone  about  my 
neck.' 

'  Ay  —  ay,'  he  replied.  '  Yes,  I  remember  you  now.  I 
did,  I  did.  Was  it  good  advice,  young  man?' 

'It  was,  doubtless,  very  good  advice.  But  I  did  not  take 
it.  What  are  you  doing  here?' 

'  I  come  to  look  after  my  master,'  he  replied  simply. 

'Your  master?  He  has  kept  you  in  rags  and  wretched- 
ness. He  has  given  you  a  starvation  wage.' 

'  Yet  he  is  my  master.  I  have  eaten  his  bread,  though  it 
was  bitter.  I  come  every  day  to  look  after  him/ 


Out  of  the  Frying  Pan  Into  the  Fire    263 

'Has  he  no  friends?  No  wife  or  children  to  do  this  for 
him?' 

'  His  friends  were  his  money  bags  till  he  lost  them.  They 
were  his  wife  and  children  as  well.' 

'  Has  he  no  relations  —  cousins  —  nephews? ' 

'  Perhaps  —  he  has  driven  them  all  away  long  ago.' 

'  You  are  his  friend  at  least.' 

'  I  am  his  clerk,'  he  repeated.  '  Sir,  since  my  master 
found  that  all  his  money  had  been  thrown  away  and  lost, 
he  has  not  been  himself.  He  has  been  mad  with  rage  and 
grief.  That  is  why  he  hatched  that  unfortunate  plot.  I 
was  in  Court  and  heard  it.  Ah!  he  was  not  himself,  Sir,  I 
assure  you.  Common  tricks  he  practised  daily,  because  he 
knew  how  far  he  could  go.  But  not  such  a  big  job  as  this 
conspiracy.  In  his  sober  senses  he  would  not  have  been 
so  mad.  Have  you  seen  him,  Sir?  Have  you  observed 
the  change  in  him?  'Twould  bring  tears  to  a  flint.  He 
moans  and  laments  all  day  long.' 

'  Yes,  I  have  seen  him.' 

*  Sir,  he  thinks  about  nothing  else.  Sir,  I  verily  believe 
that  he  does  not  know  even  that  he  is  in  Newgate.  All 
the  money  he  had  in  the  world  is  gone  —  lent  to  Mr.  Mat- 
thew and  lost  by  Mr.  Matthew.  Terrible !  Terrible ! ' 

'  Was  there  not  some  lent  to  the  man  Merridew? ' 

'A  trifle,  Sir:  a  few  hundreds  only.  No:  it  is  all  gone. 
My  master  and  I  must  become  beggars  and  go  together  into 
the  workhouse.'  He  shook  his  poor  old  head  and  went  his 
way. 

Now  this  man  had  received  the  treatment  of  a  dog.  How 
long  he  had  been  with  Probus:  what  was  his  previous  his- 
tory I  never  knew :  it  matters  not :  he  had  received  the  treat- 
ment of  a  dog  and  the  wages  of  a  galley  slave:  yet  he  was 
faithful  and  stood  by  his  master  —  the  only  living  thing  who 
did  —  in  his  adversity  as  in  his  prosperity. 

I  next  heard  from  Mr.  Ramage  that  the  Counting  House 
was  closed  and  the  gates  of  the  Quay  locked:  that  Matthew 
had  run  away.  Then  that  the  unfortunate  Alderman,  part- 
ner in  the  House,  had  been  arrested  for  debt  and  was  taken 
to  the  Fleet  Prison.  After  this,  that  Matthew  had  been 
arrested :  that  he  was  bankrupt :  that  he  had  been  taken  to  the 
same  prison :  and  that  the  whole  amount  of  the  liabilities  was 
now  so  great  that  this  meant  certain  imprisonment  for  life. 
By  the  custom  of  London,  too,  a  creditor  may,  before  the 


264  The  Orange  Girl 

day  of  payment,  arrest  his  debtor  and  oblige  him  to  find 
sureties  to  pay  the  money  on  the  day  it  shall  become  due. 
By  this  custom  the  whole  of  Jenny's  liabilities  became  the 
cause  of  new  detainers,  so  that  I  believe  the  total  amount 
for  which  Matthew  was  imprisoned  was  not  far  short  of 
£150,000.  I  conveyed  this  intelligence  to  my  mistress. 

'  Misfortune/  she  said,  gravely,  '  is  falling  upon  all  of 
us.  Thou  alone  wilt  survive  —  the  triumph  of  virtue.  Go, 
however,  take  the  man  something,  or  he  will  starve.  Give 
it  him  from  me,  Will.  Tell  him  —  tell  him  ' She  con- 
sidered for  a  little.  '  Tell  him  —  as  soon  as  I  can  forget,  I 
will  forgive.  Not  that  he  cares  whether  he  is  forgiven  or 
not.  A  man,  Will,  I  very  truly  believe,  may  be  anything  he 
pleases  —  drunkard  —  murderer  —  highwayman :  yet  some- 
thing may  still  survive  in  him  of  human  kindness.  There 
will  still  be  a  place,  perhaps,  for  compassion  or  for  love. 
But  for  a  gambler  there  is  no  compassion  left.  He  is  more 
hardened  than  the  worst  villain  in  this  wretched  place:  he 
has  neither  sense,  nor  pity,  nor  affection,  nor  anything.  He 
is  all  gambler/ 

'  I  will  give  him  your  money,  Jenny.  But  not  your 
message/ 

She  smiled  sadly.  *  Go,  Will.  The  money  will  solace  him 
as  long  as  it  lasts.  Perhaps  a  quarter  of  an  hour.' 

I  repaired  without  delay  to  the  Fleet  Prison.  Those  who 
walk  up  and  down  the  Fleet  market  know  of  the  open 
window  in  the  wall  and  the  grating,  behind  which  stands  a 
man  holding  a  tin  box  which  he  rattles  to  attract  attention 
while  he  repeats  his  parrot  cry,  '  Pity  the  Poor  Prisoners ! 
Pity  the  Poor  Prisoners ! '  This  humiliation  is  imposed  upon 
those  of  the  Common  side:  they  must  beg  or  they  must 
starve.  What  was  my  surprise  and  shame  —  who  could 
believe  that  one  of  my  family  should  fall  so  low?  —  to  recog- 
nise in  the  prisoner  behind  these  bars,  my  cousin  Matthew! 
None  other.  His  face  was  pale  —  it  had  always  been  pale: 
now  it  was  white:  his  hand  shook:  he  was  unshaven  and 
uncombed:  I  pretended  not  to  notice  him.  I  entered  the 
prison  and  was  told  that  he  was  holding  the  plate,  but  would 
be  free  in  half  an  hour.  So  I  waited  in  the  yard  until  he 
came  out,  being  relieved  of  his  task.  I  now  saw  that  he  was 
in  rags.  How  can  a  man  dressed  as  a  substantial  merchant 
fall  into  rags  in  a  few  days?  There  was  but  one  answer. 


Out  of  the  Frying  Pan  Into  the  Fire    265 

The  gambler  can  get  rid  of  everything:  Matthew  had  played 
for  his  clothes  and  lost. 

I  accosted  him.  At  sight  of  me  he  fell  into  a  paroxysm 
of  rage.  He  reviled  and  cursed  me.  I  had  been  the  cause 
of  all  his  misfortunes:  he  wept  and  sobbed,  being  weak  for 
want  of  food  and  cold.  So  I  let  him  go  on  until  he  stopped 
and  sank  exhausted  upon  the  bench. 

Then  I  told  him  that  I  had  come  to  him  from  his  wife. 
He  began  again  to  curse  and  to  swear.  It  was  Jenny  now 
who  was  the  cause  of  all  his  troubles:  it  was  Jenny  who 
refused  to  obey  him:  her  liabilities  alone  had  prevented  him 
from  weathering  the  storm:  he  should  certainly  have 
weathered  the  storm :  and  so  on  —  foolish  recrimination  that 
meant  nothing. 

I  made  no  answer  until  he  had  again  exhausted  his 
strength,  but  not  his  bitterness. 

'  Matthew,'  I  said,  '  the  woman  against  whom  you  have 
been  railing  sends  you  money.  Here  it  is.  Use  it  for  living 
and  not  for  gambling.'  The  money  I  gave  him  was  five 
guineas. 

The  moment  he  had  it  in  his  hand  he  hurried  away  as 
fast  as  he  could  go.  I  thought  he  ran  away  in  order  to 
conceal  his  agitation  or  shame  at  receiving  these  coals  of 
fire.  Not  so,  it  was  in  order  to  find  out  someone  who  would 
sit  down  to  play  with  him.  Oh !  It  was  a  madness. 

I  watched  him.  He  ran  to  the  kitchen  and  bought  some 
food.  He  swallowed  it  eagerly.  Then  he  bent  his  steps 
to  the  coffee-room.  I  followed  and  looked  in.  He  was 
already  at  a  table  opposite  another  man,  and  in  his  hands 
was  a  pack  of  cards.  In  a  few  hours  or  a  few  minutes  —  it 
mattered  not  which  —  Jenny's  present  of  five  guineas  would 
be  gone,  and  the  man  would  be  destitute  again.  Poor 
wretch !  One  forgave  him  all  considering  this  madness  that 
had  fallen  upon  him. 

'  But/  said  Jenny,  '  he  was  bad  before  he  was  mad.  He 
was  bad  when  he  married  me:  he  is  only  worse:  nothing 
more  is  the  matter  with  him.' 

But  my  uncle,  the  Alderman,  also  involved  in  the  bank- 
ruptcy, had  been  carried  to  the  same  place,  while  his  great 
house  on  Clapham  Common,  with  all  his  plate  and  fine  furni- 
ture, had  been  sold  for  the  benefit  of  the  creditors.  Matthew 
had  ruined  all.  I  went  to  see  him.  He  was  on' the  Masters', 
not  the  common  side.  It  was  a  most  melancholy  spectacle. 


266  The  Orange  Girl 

For  my  own  part  I  bore  the  poor  man  no  kind  of  malice. 
He  had  but  believed  things  told  him  concerning  me.  He 
gave  me  his  hand. 

'  Nephew/  he  said,  his  voice  breaking,  '  this  is  but  a  poor 
place  for  an  Alderman:  yet  it  is  to  be  my  portion  for  the 
brief  remainder  of  my  days.     What  would  my  brother  — 
your  father  —  have  said  if  he  had  known?     But  he  could  not 
even  suspect:  no  one  could  suspect  — 

'  Nay,  Sir/  I  said,  '  I  hope  that  your  creditors  will  give 
you  a  speedy  release/ 

'I  doubt  it,  Will.  They  are  incensed  —  and  justly  so  — 
at  their  treatment  by  —  by  —  Matthew.  They  reproach  me 
with  not  knowing  what  was  doing  —  why,  Will,  I  trusted 
my  son  ' —  he  sobbed  — '  my  son  —  Absalom,  my  son  —  the 
steady  sober  son,  for  whom  I  have  thanked  God  so  often: 
Will,  he  made  me  believe  evil  things  of  thee:  he  accused 
thee  of  such  profligacy  as  we  dare  not  speak  of  in  the  City: 
profligacy  such  as  young  men  of  Quality  may  practise  but 
not  young  men  of  the  City.  I  dared  not  tell  my  brother  all 
that  he  told  me/ 

'  Indeed,  Sir,  I  know  how  he  persuaded  not  only  you  but 
my  father  as  well  —  to  my  injury.  In  the  end  it  was  my  own 
act  and  deed  that  drove  me  forth,  because  I  would  not  give 
up  my  music.' 

1  If  not  that,  then  something  else  would  have  served  his 
purpose.  Alas!  Will.  Here  come  your  cousins.  Heed 
them  not.  They  are  bitter  with  me.  Heed  them  not/ 

The  girls,  whom  I  had  not  seen  since  my  father's  funeral, 
marched  along  with  disdainful  airs  pulling  their  hoops  aside, 
as  once  before,  to  prevent  the  contamination  of  a  touch. 
They  reddened  when  they  saw  me,  but  not  with  friendliness. 

'  Oh ! '  said  one, '  he  comes  to  gloat  over  our  misfortunes/ 

'  Ah !     No  doubt  they  make  him  happy/ 

'  Cousins/  I  said,  '  I  am  in  no  mood  to  rejoice  over  any- 
thing except  my  own  escape  from  grievous  peril.  The  hand 
of  the  Lord  is  heavy  upon  this  family.  We  are  all  afflicted. 
As  for  your  brother  Matthew,  it  is  best  to  call  him  mad/ 

'Who  hath  driven  him  mad?'  asked  Amelia,  the  elder. 
*  The  revengeful  spirit  of  his  cousin ! ' 

This  was  their  burden.  Women  may  be  the  most  unrea- 
sonable of  all  creatures.  These  girls  could  not  believe  that 
their  brother  was  guilty:  the  bankruptcy  of  the  House:  the 
stories  of  his  gambling:  his  marriage  with  an  actress:  his 


Out  of  the  Frying  Pan  Into  the  Fire    267 

evidence  in  the  Court:  were  all  set  down  as  instigated,  sug- 
gested, encouraged,  or  invented,  by  his  wicked  cousin,  Will. 
It  matters  not:  I  have  no  doubt  that  the  legend  had  grown 
in  their  minds  until  it  was  an  article  of  their  creed:  if  they 
ever  mention  the  Prodigal  Son  —  who  is  now  far  away  — 
it  is  to  deplore  the  wicked  wiles  by  which  he  ruined  their 
martyred  Saint:  their  brother  Matthew. 

'  It  is  of  no  use/  I  said  to  my  uncle,  '  to  protest,  to  ask 
what  my  cousins  mean,  or  how  I  could  have  injured  Mat- 
thew, had  I  desired.  I  may  tell  you,  Sir,  that  I  learned  only 
a  short  time  ago  that  Matthew  was  a  gambler:  that  the 
affairs  of  the  House  were  desperate:  and  that  an  attempt 
was  to  be  made  upon  my  life  —  an  attempt  of  which  Matthew 
was  cognizant  —  even  if  he  did  not  formally  consent.  So, 
Sir,  I  take  my  leave.' 

They  actually  did  not  know  that  Matthew  was  within  the 
same  walls. —  Father  and  son:  the  father  on  the  Masters' 
side,  dignified  at  least  with  the  carriage  of  fallen  authority: 
the  son  a  ragged,  shambling  creature,  with  no  air  at  all  save 
that  of  decay  and  ruin.  Unfortunate  indeed  was  our  House: 
dismal  indeed  was  its  fall :  shameful  was  its  end. 


CHAPTER  XIX 

THE    END    OF   THE    CONSPIRACY 

THE  trial  of  our  four  friends  for  conspiracy  took  place  in 
the  middle  of  January.  For  my  own  part,  I  had  to  relate 
in  open  Court  the  whole  history  with  which  you  are  already 
acquainted:  the  clause  in  my  father's  will  giving  me  a 
chance  of  obtaining  a  large  fortune  if  I  should  survive  my 
cousin:  the  attempts  made  by  Mr.  Probus  to  persuade  me 
to  sell  the  chance  of  succession:  the  trumping  up  of  a  debt 
which  never  existed :  my  imprisonment  in  a  debtors'  Prison : 
my  release  by  Jenny's  assistance:  the  renewed  attempts  of 
Mr.  Probus  to  gain  my  submission:  his  threats:  and  the 
truth  about  the  alleged  robbery.  I  also  stated  that  two 
of  the  defendants  had  been  imprisoned  in  the  King's  Bench 
at  the  same  time  as  myself  and  that  they  were  at  that  time 
close  companions. 


268  The  Orange  Girl 

The  Counsel  for  the  defence  cross-examined  me  rigor- 
ously but  with  no  effect.  My  story  was  plain  and  simple. 
It  was,  in  a  word,  so  much  to  the  interest  of  Mr.  Probus 
to  get  me  to  renounce  my  chance  that  he  stuck  at  nothing 
in  order  to  effect  this  purpose  —  or  my  death. 

I  sat  down  and  looked  about  me.  Heavens!  with  what 
a  different  mind  from  that  with  which  I  stood  in  the  dock 
now  occupied  by  my  enemies.  I  should  have  been  more 
than  human  had  I  not  felt  a  great  satisfaction  at  the  sight 
of  these  four  men  standing  in  a  row.  Let  me  call  it  grati- 
tude, not  satisfaction.  The  spectacle  of  the  chief  offender, 
the  contriver  of  the  villainy,  Mr.  Probus,  was  indeed  enough 
to  move  one's  heart  to  terror,  if  not  to  pity.  The  wretched 
man  had  lost,  with  the  whole  of  his  money,  the  whole  of  his 
wits.  The  money  was  his  God,  his  Religion,  his  Heaven: 
he  had  lost  the  harvest  of  a  life:  he  was  old:  he  would  get 
no  more  clients :  he  would  save  no  more  money.  He  would 
probably  have  to  make  a  living,  as  others  of  his  kind  have 
done,  by  advising  and  acting  as  an  attorney  for  the  rabble 
of  St.  Giles  and  Clerkenwell.  He  stood  with  rounded 
shoulders  and  bowed  head:  he  clutched  at  the  iron  spikes 
before  him :  he  pulled  the  sprigs  of  rue  to  pieces :  he  appeared 
to  pay  no  attention  at  all  to  the  evidence. 

Mr.  Merridew,  on  the  other  hand,  showed  in  his  bearing 
the  greatest  possible  terror  and  anxiety :  he  gasped  when  his 
Counsel  seemed  to  make  a  point  in  his  favour:  he  shivered 
and  shook  when  his  part  in  the  plot  was  exposed.  He  who 
had  given  evidence  in  so  many  hanging  cases  unconcerned, 
now  stood  in  the  dock  himself.  He  was  made  to  feel  — 
what  he  had  never  before  considered  —  the  natural  horror 
of  the  prisoner  and  the  dreadful  terror  of  the  sentence. 

The  case  might  have  been  strengthened  by  the  evidence 
of  the  landlady  of  the  Black  Jack.  She,  worthy  soul,  was 
out  of  the  way,  and  no  one  inquired  after  her.  Nor  was 
her  daughter  Doll  present  on  the  occasion.  But  there  was 
evidence  enough.  The  gaolers  and  masters  of  the  country 
prisons  proved  the  real  character  of  the  two  witnesses  who 
called  themselves  respectively  a  clergyman  and  a  country 
gentleman.  Ramage,  the  clerk,  proved,  as  before,  that 
Probus  brought  Merridew  to  the  Counting  House.  Jack, 
the  country  lad,  proved  the  consultations  at  the  Black  Jack 
between  Probus,  Merridew,  and  the  two  others.  These  two, 
indeed,  behaved  with  some  manliness.  They  had  given  up 


Out  of  the  Frying  Pan  Into  the  Fire    269 

all  hope  of  an  acquittal  and  could  only  hope  that  the  sentence 
would  be  comparatively  light.  They  therefore  made  a  cred- 
itable appearance  of  undaunted  courage,  a  thing  which  is 
as  popular  in  their  profession  as  in  any  other. 

I  do  not  suppose  their  crime  was  capital.  Otherwise  the 
Judge  would  most  certainly  have  sent  them  all  to  the 
gallows. 

'  Many,'  he  said  at  the  end, '  are  justly  executed  for  offences 
mild  indeed,  in  comparison  with  the  detestable  crime  of 
which  you  stand  convicted/ 

When  the  case  was  completed  and  all  the  evidence  heard, 
the  Judge  asked  the  prisoners,  one  after  the  other,  what  they 
had  to  say  in  their  own  defence. 

'  Ezekiel  Probus,  you  have  now  to  lay  before  the  Court 
whatever  you  have  to  urge  in  your  own  defence/ 

Mr.  Probus,  still  with  hanging  head,  appeared  not  to 
hear.     The  warder  touched  him  on  the  shoulder  and  whis- 
pered.    He  held  up  his  head  for  a  moment:  looked  round 
the  court,  and  murmured: 
i     '  No  —  no  —  it  is  all  gone/ 

Nothing  more  could  be  got  from  him. 

*  John  Merridew,  you  have  now  the  opportunity  of  stating 
your  own  case/ 

He  began  in  a  trembling  voice.  He  said  that  he  had  been 
long  a  sheriff's  officer:  that  he  had  incurred  great  odium 
by  his  zeal  in  the  arrest  of  criminals:  that  it  was  not  true 
that  he  had  concocted  any  plot  either  with  Mr.  Probus  or 
with  the  other  prisoners :  that  he  was  a  man  of  consideration 
whose  evidence  had  frequently  been  received  with  respect 
in  that  very  court:  that  it  was  not  true,  further,  as  had  been 
stated  by  the  Prosecution,  that  he  had  ever  encouraged 
thieves  or  advised  them  to  become  highwaymen:  that,  if  he 
went  to  such  places  as  the  Black  Jack,  it  was  to  arrest  vil- 
lains in  the  cause  of  Justice :  that  he  deposed  at  the  last  trial, 
what  he  saw  or  thought  he  saw  —  namely  a  scuffle :  he  might 
have  been  in  too  great  a  hurry  to  conclude  that  the  late  pris- 
oner Halliday  was  the  assaulting  party:  the  night  was  dark: 
he  only  knew  the  two  witnesses  as  two  rogues  whom  he 
intended  to  bring  to  justice  on  a  dozen  capital  charges  for 
each,  as  soon  as  he  was  out  of  Newgate:  and  that  he  was  a 
person  —  this  he  earnestly  begged  the  Court  to  consider  — 
without  whom  the  criminal  Courts  would  be  empty  and 
Justice  would  be  rendered  impossible.  With  more  to  the 


270  The  Orange  Girl 

same  effect,  and  all  with  such  servile  cringings  and  entreaties 
for  special  consideration  as  did  him,  I  am  convinced,  more 
harm  than  good. 

When  it  came  to  the  Doctor's  turn,  he  boldly  declared 
that  if  the  verdict  of  the  Jury  went  against  him — 'And 
gentlemen/  he  said,  '  I  must  own  that  the  evidence  has  cer- 
tainly placed  me  in  a  strange,  and  unexpected  and  most  pain- 
ful position ' —  he  would  bring  over  the  Archbishop  of 
Dublin :  the  Dean  of  St.  Patrick's  Cathedral :  and  the  Provost 
of  Trinity  College:  besides  noblemen  of  the  Irish  Peerage 
and  many  of  his  old  parishioners  in  order  to  prove  that  he 
was  what  he  pretended  to  be.  'The  assurance,  gentlemen, 
that  I  shall  be  thus  supported,  enables  me  to  bear  up  even 
against  your  possible  view  of  the  case  and  his  Lordship's 
possible  opinion.  To  a  Divine  of  unblemished  life  it  is,  I 
confess,  inexpressibly  painful  to  be  confused  with  forgers 
and  highwaymen/ 

Lastly,  the  gallant  Captain  spoke  of  himself.  'This/  he 
said  with  a  front  of  brass,  '  is  a  case  of  most  unfortunate 
resemblance.  It  appears  that  I  bear  some  likeness  to  a 
certain  notorious  robber  and  highwayman  called,  it  is  said, 
the  Captain/  Here  the  whole  Court  burst  into  laughter, 
so  unabashed  was  the  villain  when  he  pronounced  these 
words.  He  looked  round  him  with  affected  wonder.  '  The 
event  of  this  trial,  however/  he  went  on,  '  matters  but  little 
because  in  two  or  three  weeks  I  can  bring  to  town  the  Mayor 
and  Alderman,  the  Town  Clerk,  the  Rector  of  the  Church 
and  the  Master  of  the  Grammar  School  of  my  native  town 
to  testify  that  I  am  what  I  have  declared  myself  to  be.  This 
being  so,  gentlemen,  you  may  proceed,  if  you  please,  to  do 
your  duty/ 

The  Judge  then  summed  up.  He  went  through  the  whole 
case,  adopting  the  views  of  the  Counsel  for  the  Prosecution. 
He  said  that  the  evidence  before  him  was  practically 
unshaken.  It  showed  that  these  men,  who  had  pretended 
to  know  nothing  of  each  other  were  in  fact  banded  and 
allied  together  —  in  short  he  gave  the  whole  weight  of  his 
opinion  against  the  prisoners.  Indeed,  I  cannot  think  what 
else  he  would  do  seeing  the  nature  of  the  evidence.  So  he 
left  the  jury  to  find  their  verdict. 

They  found  it,  without  leaving  the  box.  It  was  a  verdict 
.of  '  Guilty '  against  all  four  prisoners.  I  looked  to  see  the 
Judge  assume  the  black  cap.  To  my  surprise,  he  did  not. 


Out  of  the  Frying  Pan  Into  the  Fire    271 

He  began  by  commenting  in  the  strongest  terms  on  the  dia- 
bolical wickedness  of  the  conspiracy.  He  said  that  he  could 
find  no  difference  as  to  the  respective  guilt  of  one  or  the 
other.  The  prisoner  Probus,  a  merhber  of  a  learned  pro- 
fession, was  the  contriver  or  designer  of  the  deed:  perhaps 
he  might  be  thought  the  worst.  Indeed,  his  was  a  depth  of 
infamy  to  which  it  was  difficult  to  find  a  rival  or  an  equal.  He 
would  be  punished  worse  than  the  rest  because  he  would 
infallibly  lose  by  his  disgrace  his  profession  and  his  prac- 
tice. The  infamy  of  the  prisoner  Merridew,  when  one  con- 
sidered the  hold  that  he  had  over  a  large  number  of 
criminals  and  rogues,  was  very  close  to  that  of  the  prisoner 
Probus.  He  had  apparently  forced  the  other  two  into  carry- 
ing out  the  plot,  on  threat  of  informing  against  them.  In 
short,  he  pronounced  the  sentence  of  the  court;  namely,  that 
the  prisoners  should  stand  in  pillory  for  an  hour  and  then 
be  imprisoned  for  the  space  of  four  years. 

On  hearing  the  sentence  Mr.  Merridew  shrieked  aloud. 
*  My  Lord!'  he  cried.  'My  Lord!  Have  mercy!  They 
will  murder  me!7 

They  led  him  off  crying  that  he  was  a  murdered  man. 
The  Doctor  swelled  out  his  cassock.  '  The  Archbishop/  he 
said,  '  will  arrive,  I  believe,  next  week.  There  will  still  be 
time  for  his  Grace  to  procure  my  release/  So  rolling  his 
head  and  squaring  his  sleeves,  he  followed  along  the  passage 
which  leads  to  the  Prison. 

I  left  the  Court  and  made  my  way  through  the  crowd  to 
the  gates  of  Newgate  in  order  to  tell  Jenny. 

*  Four  years,'  she  said,  '  will  more  than  suffice  to  ruin  the 
man  Merridew.  His  companies  of  thieves  will  be  broken 
up;  he  will  no  longer  have  any  hold  over  them.  He  will 
have  to  turn  rogue  himself.  When  all  has  been  said,  this 
is  the  greatest  villain  of  them  all.  I  hope  they  will  not 
maltreat  the  prisoners  in  pillory;  because  there  they  are 
defenceless.  But  a  thief-taker  —  a  thief-taker,  they  cannot 
abide.  If  I  were  Mr.  Merridew  I  should  wish  the  job  well 
over.' 

While  we  were  discoursing  there  came  a  message  from 
the  Captain.  Would  Madame  grant  him  the  favour  of 
speech  with  her? 

He  came  in,  walking  with  his  heavy  clanking  irons.  He 
had  lost  the  braggart  swagger  which  he  assumed  at  the 


272  The  Orange  Girl 

trial,  and  now  looked  as  humble  as  any  pickpocket  about 
to  undergo  the  discipline  of  the  pump. 

'  Madame/  he  said,  '  I  thank  you  for  this  favour/ 

'  Your  trial  is  over,  Captain,  I  hear.' 

'  It  is  over/  he  sighed.  *  Mr.  Halliday,  Sir,  I  hope  you 
are  satisfied/ 

'  I  desire  no  revenge/  I  said.  '  I  want  safety  and  peace  — 
nothing  more.  These  blessings  you  and  your  friends 
denied  me/ 

'It  is  quite  true,  Sir.  It  was  a  most  damnable  plot.  The 
only  excuse  for  me  is  that  I  had  no  choice  but  to  comply 
and  obey,  or  be  hanged/ 

1  Captain,  I  do  not  desire  more  of  your  company  than  is 
necessary.  Will  you  tell  me  what  you  want  of  me?' 

'  The  sentence  is ' —  he  made  a  wry  face  — '  Pillory,  Pil- 
lory, Madame.  And  four  years'  imprisonment.  But  the 
four  years  will  pass  —  what  I  fear  is  Pillory/ 

'  I  have  heard  of  a  man's  friends  protecting  him/ 

'  Mine  will  do  what  they  can.  But,  Madame,  my  fear  is 
not  so  much  on  my  own  account  as  that  I  may  be  put  up 
on  the  same  scaffold  with  Mr.  Merridew  or  Mr.  Probus. 
There  isn't  a  rogue  in  London  who  will  not  come  out  with 
something  for  the  thief-taker.  Madame,  no  one  knows  the 
terror  in  which  we  poor  robbers  live.  The  world  envies  us 
our  lot;  they  think  it  is  glorious  to  ride  out  of  a  moonlight 
night  and  stop  the  coach  all  alone.  They  don't  know  that 
the  thief-taker  is  always  behind  the  highwayman.  He  lays 
his  hand  on  the  largest  share  of  the  swag;  he  encourages 
lads  to  take  the  roads,  and  whenever  he  wants  money  he 
says  that  the  time  is  up  and  then  he  takes  the  reward.  My 
time  was  up/ 

'  I  know  all  this  —  unhappily  —  as  well  as  you.  What 
do  you  want  me  to  do?' 

'  Mr.  Probus  —  he  will  prove  quite  as  unpopular  as 
Merridew.  They  thirst  for  his  blood.  There  will  be  mur- 
der done  in  the  pillory.  Madame,  for  the  love  of  God,  do 
something  for  me/ 

'What?' 

'  You  have  great  influence.  Everybody  knows  what  pow- 
erful friends  you  have.  Make  them  put  the  two  unpopular 
prisoners  on  the  same  scaffold.  They  will  share  the  flints 
between  them.  Let  me  stand  up  beside  the  Bishop. 
Nobody  will  give  us  much  more  than  a  dead  cat  or  two 


Out  of  the  Frying  Pan  Into  the  Fire    273 

and  a  basket  of  rotten  eggs.  But  the  other  two* — he 
shivered  with  cold  terror  — '  I  know  not  what  will  happen 
to  them/ 

'  Well,  Captain,  perhaps  if  Merridew  gives  up  the  pro- 
fession, you  may  possibly  turn  honest  man  again  when 
you  go  out  of  this  place/ 

He  shook  his  head.  '  No,  that  is  impossible/ 
'Well,  I  will  do  this.  The  Governor  of  the  Prison  is 
civil  to  me.  I  will  ask  him  as  a  special  favour  to  place  you 
as  you  desire.  I  hope  that  you  both  —  the  Bishop  as  well 
as  yourself  —  will  enjoy  your  short  hour  on  that  elevated 
position.  Will,  give  the  Captain  a  bottle  of  wine  to  take 
away  with  him.  You  can  go,  sir/ 


CHAPTER  XX 

THE  HONOURS  OF  THE  MOB 

IT  WAS  far  from  my  intention  to  witness  the  reception  of 
my  friends  in  Pillory  from  the  sympathizing  mob.  I  was, 
however,  reminded  that  the  day  had  arrived  by  finding  in 
my  morning  walk  from  Lambeth  to  the  Old  Bailey  the 
Pillory  itself  actually  erected,  in  St.  Martin's  Lane,  some- 
what above  St.  Martin's  Church.  It  was  put  up  in  the  open 
space  where  Long  Acre  runs  into  St.  Martin's  Lane,  very 
nearly  in  the  .actual  spot  where  the  assault  was  delivered 
and  the  plot  carried  out.  A  just  retribution.  Even  now, 
after  thirty  years,  only  to  think  of  the  villainy  causes  my 
blood  to  boil:  nothing  surely  could  be  bad  enough  for  these 
creatures,  vilest  of  all  the  vile  creatures  of  this  wicked  town. 
At  the  same  time  when  I  saw  the  preparations  that  were 
making  for  the  reception  of  the  criminals,  my  heart  sank, 
and  I  would  willingly  have  spared  them  all  and  forgiven 
them  all  to  save  them  from  what  followed. 

The  pillory,  on  a  scaffold  four  feet  high,  was  put  up  with 
'  accommodation ' —  if  we  may  so  describe  it  —  for  two  per- 
sons standing  side  by  side,  so  that  they  could  not  see  each 
other.  They  were  also  so  close  together  that  favours 
intended  for  the  face  of  one  might  if  they  missed  him  be 
received  by  some  part  of  the  body  of  the  other.  A  vast 


274  The  Orange  Girl 

crowd  was  already  assembled,  although  the  sentence  would 
not  be  carried  out  till  eleven,  and  it  was  then  barely  nine. 
The  crowd  consisted  of  the  scum  and  off-scouring  of  the 
whole  city:  there  was  a  company  from  Southwark.  While 
I  was  looking  on,  they  arrived  marching  in  good  form  like 
soldiers:  there  were  contributions  from  Turnmill  Street  and 
Hockley-by-the-Hole:  there  were  detachments  from  the 
Riverside:  from  St.  Katherine's  by  the  Tower:  from  Clerken- 
well :  but,  above  all,  from  St.  Giles's. 

'  Who  is  to  stand  up  there  to-day  ?  '  I  asked  one  of  them  — 
a  more  decent-looking  man  than  most.  Of  course,  I  knew 
very  well,  but  I  wished  to  find  out  what  the  people  intended. 

'Where  do  you  come  from,  not  to  know  that?'  the  man 
replied.  "Tis  the  thief-taker:  him  that  makes  the  rogue: 
teaches  the  rogue  and  then  sells  the  rogue.  Now  we've  got 
him  —  wait  till  we  leave  him.  And  there's  the  lawyer  who 
made  the  plot  to  hang  a  man.  We've  got  him,  too.  We 
don't  often  get  a  lawyer.  Wait  a  bit  —  wait  a  bit.  You 
shall  see  what  they'll  look  like  when  we  leave  them.' 

He  had  his  apron  full  of  something  or  other  —  rotten 
eggs,  perhaps :  or  rotten  apples :  or,  perhaps,  brickbats.  The 
faces  of  all  .around  expressed  the  same  deadly  look  of 
revenge.  I  thought  of  the  Captain's  terror,  and  of  his  peti- 
tion to  Jenny;  that  he  might  be  put  up  with  the  Bishop;  it 
was  impossible  not  to  feel  awed  and  terrified  at  the  aspect 
of  so  much  hatred  and  such  deliberate  preparation  for 
revenge.  A  thief-taker  and  a  lawyer!  Oh!  noble  oppor- 
tunity! Some  carried  baskets  filled  with  missiles:  some  had 
their  aprons  full;  the  women  for  their  part  brought  rotten 
eggs  and  dead  cats,  stinking  rabbits,  and  all  kinds  of  putrid 
offal  in  baskets  and  in  their  arms,  as  if  they  had  been  things 
precious  and  costly.  They  conferred  together  and  laughed, 
grimly  telling  what  they  had  to  throw,  and  how  they  would 
throw  it. 

'  I  don't  waste  my  basket/  said  one,  '  on  rotten  eggs. 
There's  something  here  sharper  than  rotten  eggs.  He  took 
my  man  before  his  time  was  up,  because  he  wanted  the 
money.  My  man  was  honest  before  he  met  Merridew,  who 
made  him  a  rogue,  poor  lad!  —  yes,  made  him  —  told  him 
what  to  do  —  taught  him:  made  him  a  highwayman:  told 
him  where  to  go;  hired  a  horse  for  him  and  gave  him  a 
pistol.  Then  he  sold  him  —  got  forty  pounds  and  a  Tyburn 
ticket  for  him  and  twenty  pounds  allowance  for  his  own 


Out  of  the  Frying  Pan  Into  the  Fire    275 

horse.  Oh !  If  my  arm  is  strong  enough !  Let  me  get  near 
him  —  close  to  him,  good  people.' 

'  He  took  my  son/  said  another,  '  to  be  sure  he  was  a 
rogue,  but  he  thieved  in  a  safe  way  till  John  Merridew  got 
him.  If  I  had  my  strength  that  I  used  to  have  it  wouldn't 
be  rotten  eggs;  but  never  mind  —  there's  others  besides  me. 
Don't  waste  your  brickbats:  throw  straight:  let  the  women 
get  to  the  front.  Oh!  He  shall  look  very  pretty  when  he  is 
carried  home.  He  shall  have  a  pleasant  hour  with  his 
friends.  We  love  him,  don't  we?  We  love  him  like  a  son, 
we  do.' 

This  man  had  for  years  exercised  absolute  sway  over 
Rogueland.  He  instructed  the  young  in  the  various 
branches  of  the  criminal's  horrid  trade :  he  led  them  on  from 
pocket-picking  to  stealing  from  stalls  and  bulkheads:  to 
shop-lifting;  to  burglary;  to  robbery  in  the  street:  to  for- 
gery: to  coining  and  issuing  false  coin:  to  highway  robbery 
and,  at  times,  to  murder.  'Twas  the  most  accomplished  and 
the  most  desperate  villain  that  ever  lived  —  I  cannot  believe 
that  his  like  was  ever  known.  No  one  dared  to  cross  him  or 
to  refuse  his  orders.  If  anyone  should  be  so  presumptuous, 
he  speedily  repented  in  Newgate  under  a  capital  charge  fol- 
lowed by  a  capital  sentence.  There  are  so  many  ways  of 
getting  hanged,  and  so  few  outside  the  law  know  what 
offences  may  be  capital  and  what  are  not,  that  there  was 
never  any  certainty  in  the  mind  of  the  smallest  rogue  that 
he  was  safe  from  such  a  charge.  Children  of  fourteen  on  his 
information  were  hung  as  well  as  grown  men:  little  girls  of 
fourteen  were  hung  on  his  information  as  well  as  grown 
women:  for  shop-lifting,  for  lifting  linen  from  the  hedge  — 
why  this  devil  incarnate  would  instigate  a  child  to  commit 
a  capital  offence  and  then  give  him  into  custody  for  the 
reward,  careless  whether  the  child  was  hanged  or  not.  It 
was  a  terrible  end  that  he  met  with.  I  read  sometimes  of 
dreadful  punishments:  of  tortures  and  agonies:  yet  I  cannot 
picture  to  myself  a  punishment  more  awful  than  to  stand  up 
before  an  infuriated  and  implacable  mob ;  to  look  down  upon 
thousands  of  faces  and  to  see  no  gleam  of  relenting  upon 
one :  not  one  with  a  tear  of  pity :  to  hear  their  yells  of  execra- 
tion: to  see  their  arms  springing  up  with  one  consent 

Poor  wretch!  Poor  wretch! 

These  people  knew  very  well  that  Mr.  Merridew  could  hang 
them  all:  that,  in  course  of  time,  he  would  hang  them  all; 


276  The  Orange  Girl 

and  that,  if  they  offended  him,  he  would  hang  them  all  at 
once.  It  was  a  terrible  weapon  for  one  man  to  wield:  nor 
can  I  believe  that  the  laws  of  the  land  intended  that  any 
one  man  should  be  able  to  wield  such  a  weapon.  Why  they 
allowed  him  to  exist  I  know  not  —  seeing  their  insensibility 
to  crime,  one  would  think  that  they  would  have  murdered 
him  long  before.  From  wives  he  had  taken  their  husbands; 
from  mothers  their  sons ;  from  girls  their  sweethearts :  he  had 
taken  their  wives  and  their  mistresses  from  the  men;  he  had 
taken  the  boys  —  one  cannot  say  the  innocent  boys  —  from 
their  playfellows;  and  he  had  hanged  them  all.  It  would  be 
interesting  to  know  how  many  he  had  hanged,  this  murder- 
ous, blood-stained  villain,  whose  heart  was  like  the  nether 
millstone  for  hardness. 

The  punishment  of  pillory  hands  a  man  over  to  the 
people,  for  judgment  and  execution  or  for  acquittal  or  for 
pardon.  The  law  says  practically,  '  We  find  him  guilty : 
we  assign  him  a  term  of  imprisonment:  it  is  for  the  people 
to  increase  the  punishment  or  to  protest  against  it.'  In  the 
case  of  a  common  rogue,  whose  offence  is  in  no  way  remark- 
able, a  few  rotten  eggs,  broken  on  his  face  and  dropping 
yellow  streams  over  the  nose  and  cheeks,  please  the  mob, 
who  like  this  harmless  demonstration  in  favour  of  virtue 
which  does  not  hurt  their  friend  and  brother,  the  prisoner. 
In  other  cases,  where  the  sympathy  of  the  people  is  entirely 
with  the  prisoner,  one  hour  of  pillory  means  an  hour  of  tri- 
umph. For  they  bring  bands  of  music  and  welcome  the 
criminal;  they  shout  applause:  they  hang  the  pillory  with 
flowers:  they  take  out  the  horses  and  drag  the  carriage. 
This  happened  to  Dr.  Shebbeare,  who  came  to  the  pillory 
in  the  sheriff's  carriage  and  stood  in  front  of  the  pillory,  not 
in  it,  a  man  holding  an  umbrella  over  his  head  the  whole 
time  to  keep  off  the  rain.  It  is,  however,  the  most  terrible 
punishment  that  can  be  devised  when  the  mob  are  infuriated 
with  the  prisoner.  In  this  case  the  thief-taker,  the  Man- 
slayer  was  about  to  stand  before  them:  and  with  him  the 
designer  of  a  plot  to  take  away  the  life  of  an  innocent  man. 

The  crowd  now  became  so  dense  that  it  was  impossible 
to  get  forwards  or  back.  Therefore,  though  it  might  seem 
revengeful  to  look  on  at  the  popular  reception  of  these  two 
wretches,  I  was  fain  to  stay  where  I  was,  namely,  on  the  top 
step  of  Slaughter's  Coffee  House.  The  time  passed  quickly 
while  I  stood  looking  on  and  listening,  The  crowd  grew 


Out  of  the  Frying  Pan  Into  the  Fire    277 

thicker:  on  the  outskirts  with  me  were  many  respectable 
persons.  Their  indignation  against  the  crime  was,  like  mine, 
tempered  by  the  prospect  of  the  horrible  punishment  that 
awaited  the  evil-doers.  I  would  not  tell  them  that  I  myself 
was  the  object  of  this  plot,  for  fear  of  being  considered  as 
wishing  to  enjoy  a  revenge  full  and  satisfying. 

'  The  greatest  villain  of  the  four/  said  one  gentleman,  '  is 
the  attorney.  He  will  barely  escape,  I  think :  but  these  peo- 
ple are  assembled  to  vent  their  revenge  upon  the  thief-takei . 
I  know  not  whether,  when  he  is  gone,  crime  will  decrease, 
but  it  is  time  that  something  was  done  to  prevent  the  encour- 
agement of  crime  with  one  hand,  and  the  arrest  of  the  crim- 
inal with  the  other.  Such  a  wretch,  Sir,  is  not  fit  to  live/ 

'  And/  said  another, '  unless  I  mistake,  we  are  here  to  wit- 
ness the  resolution  of  the  mob  that  he  shall  no  longer  live/ 

At  eleven  o'clock  there  was  a  shout  which  ran  all  down 
St.  Martin's  Lane.  'Here  they  come!  here  they  come!' 
followed  by  roars  which  were  certainly  not  meant  for 
applause  and  approval. 

'  It  is  an  awful  moment/  said  my  next  neighbour.  '  If  I 
could  get  out  of  the  throng  I  would  go  away.  It  will  be  a 
terrible  spectacle/ 

There  was  a  force  of  constables  round  the  pillory.  As 
it  appeared  immediately  afterwards,  it  was  insufficient. 
They  formed  a  circle  standing  shoulder  to  shoulder,  to  keep 
back  the  crowd  and  to  preserve  an  open  space  round  the 
scaffold.  It  is  a  merciful  plan  because  the  greater  the  dis- 
tance, the  better  is  the  prisoner's  chance. 

The  prisoners  were  brought  in  a  cart.  It  was  recognised 
by  the  crowd  as  a  cart  used  for  flogging  unfortunates,  and 
there  were  jokes  on  the  subject,  perhaps  the  hitching  of 
shoulders,  as  it  passed.  It  was  guarded  by  a  force  of  con- 
stables armed  with  clubs ;  not  that  they  feared  a  rescue,  but 
that  they  feared  a  rush  of  the  crowd  and  the  tearing  of  the 
prisoners  to  pieces. 

I  was  standing,  I  say,  on  the  highest  doorstep  of 
Slaughter's  Coffee  House,  the  windows  of  which  were  full  of 
men  looking  on.  Looking  thus  over  the  heads  of  the  peo- 
ple, I  saw  that  the  driver  and  the  prisoner  Probus  were 
covered  already  with  filth  and  with  rotten  eggs.  The  former 
cursed  the  people.  'Why  can't  you  wait  —  you?'  he  cried 
as  the  eggs  flew  about  his  head  or  broke  upon  his  face.  Mr. 
Probus  sat  on  the  bench  bowed  and  doubled  up.  He  showed 


278  The  Orange  Girl 

no  fear:  he  was  as  one  who  is  utterly  broken  up,  and  in 
despair :  he  had  lost  his  money — all  his  money :  the  work 
of  his  life.  That  was  all  he  cared  for.  He  was  disgraced 
and  imprisoned  —  he  had  lost  his  money.  He  was  going 
to  be  pelted  in  the  pillory  —  he  had  lost  his  money  —  noth- 
ing else  mattered. 

To  a  revengeful  man  this  day's  work  was  revenge  indeed, 
ample  and  satisfying,  if  revenge  ever  can  satisfy.  I  do  not 
think  it  can:  one  would  want  to  repeat  it  every  day:  the 
man  in  the  Italian  Poem  who  gnaws  his  enemy's  head  can 
never  have  enough  of  his  cruel  and  horrid  revenge.  I  hope, 
however,  that  no  one  will  think  that  I  rejoiced  over  suffer- 
ings, terrors,  and  pain  unspeakable;  even  though  they  were 
deserved. 

If  Mr.  Probus  showed  callousness  and  insensibility  extra- 
ordinary, his  companion  behaved  in  exactly  an  opposite 
manner.  For  he  had  thrown  himself  down  in  the  bottom  of 
the  cart,  and  there  lay  writhing  while  the  execrations  of  the 
people  followed  the  cart.  When  the  procession  arrived  at 
the  pillory  it  took  six  men  to  drag  him  out.  He  covered  his 
face  with  his  hands:  he  wept  —  the  tears  ran  down  his 
cheeks:  he  clung  to  the  constables;  it  took  a  quarter  of  an 
hour  before  they  had  him  up  the  steps  and  on  the  platform : 
it  took  another  ten  minutes  before  he  was  placed  in  the 
machine,  his  face  turned  towards  the  crowd  on  the  north 
side  with  his  helpless  hands  struck  through  the  holes.  As  for 
the  other  he  stood  facing  the  south. 

When  both  the  miserable  men  were  ready  the  under- 
sheriff  and  the  constables  ducked  their  heads  and  ran  for 
their  lives  from  the  stage  down  the  ladder  and  waited  under 
cover. 

For,  with  a  roar  as  of  a  hungry  wild  beast  the  mob  began. 
There  was  no  formal  or  courteous  commencement  with 
rotten  eggs  and  dead  cats.  These  things,  it  is  true,  were 
flung,  and  with  effect.  But  from  the  very  beginning  they 
were  accompanied  by  sharp  flints,  stones  and  brickbats. 
The  mob  broke  through  the  line  of  constables  and  filled  up 
the  open  space;  they  pushed  the  women  to  the  front:  I  think 
they  were  mad :  they  shrieked  and  yelled  execrations :  the  air 
was  thick  with  missiles;  where  did  they  come  from?  There 
were  neither  pause  nor  cessation.  For  the  whole  time  the 
storm  went  on:  the  under-sheriff  wanted,  I  have  heard,  to 
.take  down  the  men;. but  no  one  would  venture  on  the  stage 


Out  of  the  Frying  Pan  Into  the  Fire    279 

to  release  them.  Meanwhile  with  both  of  them  the  yellow 
streams  of  broken  eggs  had  given  way  to  blood.  Their 
faces  and  heads  were  covered  every  inch  —  every  half  inch 
—  with  open  bleeding  wounds :  their  eyes  were  closed,  their 
heads  held  down  as  much  as  they  could:  if  they  groaned; 
if  they  shrieked;  if  they  prayed  for  mercy;  if  they  prayed  for 
the  mercy  of  Heaven  since  from  man  there  was  none;  no  one 
could  hear  in  the  Babel  of  voices  from  the  mob.  It  was  the 
Thief- taker,  the  Man-slayer,  who  was  the  principal  object  of 
the  crowd's  attention :  but  they  could  not  distinguish  between 
the  two  and  they  soon  threw  at  one  head  or  the  other  impar- 
tially. It  was  indeed  a  most  dreadful  spectacle  of  the  popu- 
lar justice.  Just  so,  the  Jews  took  out  the  man  who  wor- 
shipped false  idols,  and  the  woman  who  was  a  witch  and 
stoned  them  with  stones,  so  that  they  died.  For  my  own 
part  I  can  never  forget  that  sight  of  the  two  bowed  heads 
at  which  a  mob  of  I  know  not  how  many  hundreds  crowded 
together  in  a  narrow  street  hurled  everything  that  they 
could  find,  round  paving  stones,  sharp  flints,  broken  bricks, 
wooden  logs,  with  every  kind  of  execration  that  the  worst 
and  lowest  of  the  people  can  invent.  From  the  south  and 
from  the  north:  there  was  an  equal  shower;  there  was  no 
difference. 

For  a  whole  hour  this  went  on.  The  pillory  should  have 
been  turned  every  quarter  of  an  hour.  But  no  one  dared  to 
mount  the  stage  in  order  to  turn  it  —  besides  it  was  safer  to 
let  one  side  exhaust  their  artillery  than  to  tempt  the  unspent 
stores  of  the  other  side. 

At  last  the  hour  of  twelve  struck.  There  was  a  final  dis- 
charge: then  all  stopped.  The  heads  hung  down  inanimate, 
motionless.  Had  the  mob,  then,  killed  them  both? 

The  under-sheriff  mounted  the  stage :  one  of  the  constables 
cleared  it  of  the  miscellaneous  stuff  lying  at  the  feet  of  the 
prisoners;  then  they  took  out  the  men.  Both  were  senseless; 
they  were  carried  down  the  steps  and  placed  in  the  cart.  The 
driver  went  to  the  horse's  head;  the  constables  closed  in: 
the  show  was  over. 

In  five  minutes  the  whole  crowd  had  dispersed;  they  had 
enjoyed  the  very  rare  chance  of  expressing  their  opinion 
upon  a  Thief-taker  and  an  Attorney.  They  went  off  in 
great  spirits,  marching  away  in  companies  each  in  its  own 
direction.  Those  from  Clare  Market  I  observed,  were  headed 


28 o  The  Orange  Girl 

by  music  peculiar  to  that  district  played  by  eight  butchers 
with  marrow-bones  and  cleavers. 

The  horrid  business  over  I  thought  I  would  learn  how  the 
other  two  fared  in  Soho  Square.  The  pillory  was  still  stand- 
ing when  I  got  there,  but  the  business  of  the  day  was  over. 
From  a  gentleman  who  had  been  a  spectator  I  learned  that 
the  two  men  were  turned  to  the  four  quarters  in  the  pillory, 
that  their  friends  on  the  St.  Giles's  side  would  not  pelt  them ; 
but  that  on  the  other  three  sides  they  received  a  liberal  allow- 
ance of  eggs  and  such  harmless  gifts,  together  with  a  more 
severe  expression  of  opinion  in  stones  and  brickbats.  They 
were  taken  out  wounded  and  bleeding,  but  they  could  walk 
down  the  ladder  and  were  carried  off  in  their  right  senses,  at 
least. 

I  went  on  to  Newgate.  There  I  learned  that  the  man 
Merridew  was  already  dead:  he  was  found  dead  in  the  cart 
when  he  was  brought  in.  It  was  not  wonderful.  His  skull 
was  battered  in;  his  cheek-bones  were  broken:  his  jaw  was 
fractured:  for  the  last  half-hour  it  was  thought  he  had  been 
already  senseless  if  not  dead.  The  case  of  Mr.  Probus  was 
nearly  as  bad.  He  was  breathing,  they  told  me,  and  no  more. 
It  was  doubtful  if  he  would  recover. 

The  Captain  and  the  Bishop  were,  as  I  have  said,  more 
fortunate.  They  escaped  with  scars  which  would  disfigure 
them  for  life.  But  they  did  escape,  and  since  their  master 
the  Man-slayer  was  dead,  they  might  begin  again,  once  out 
of  prison,  with  another  rope  much  longer,  perhaps,  than 
the  first. 

I  suppose  they  are  long  since  hanged,  both  of  them.  No 
other  lot  was  possible  for  them.  I  have  not  seen  them  or 
heard  of  them,  since  that  day. 


CHAPTER  XXI 

"  GUILTY,  MY  LORD  " 

THE  days  slipped  away.    Visitors  came,  gazed,  and  departed. 
Our  attorney   exhorted  Jenny   every   day   to  consider  her 
decision  and  to  prepare  a  defence. 
'  Consider,  Madame/  he  urged  earnestly,  '  you  will  stand 


Out  of  the  Frying  Pan  Into  the  Fire    281 

before  a  Court  already  prepossessed  by  the  knowledge  of 
your  history,  in  your  favour.  There  will  be  no  pressure  of 
points  against  you.  It  will  be  shown,  nay,  it  is  already  well 
known,  that  you  have,  by  your  own  unaided  efforts,  defeated 
a  most  odious  conspiracy  and  made  it  possible  for  the  con- 
spirators to  be  brought  to  justice.  This  fact,  further,  assigns 
reasons  and  motives  for  the  persecution  and  the  malignity 
of  their  friends.  I  am  prepared  to  show  that  at  the  time 
when  you  are  charged  with  receiving  stolen  property  you 
were  occupying  a  fine  position ;  that  you  were  solvent  because 
you  were  receiving  large  sums  of  money :  that  you  were  the 
last  person  to  be  tempted  even  to  receive  stolen  goods 
especially  those  of  a  mean  and  worthless  character.  Those 
who  might  otherwise  be  ready  to  perjure  themselves  against 
you  will  be  afraid  to  speak  since  this  last  business.  You 
have  this  protection  brought. about  by  your  own  action.  It 
will  be  impossible  to  prove  that  you  had  any  knowledge  of 
the  property  found  on  your  premises/ 

'  All  that  is  true.    Yet,  dear  Sir,  I  cannot  change  my  mind/ 

'  It  is  so  true  that  I  cannot  believe  it  possible  under  the 
circumstances  for  a  jury  to  convict:  you  are  also,  Madame, 
which  is  a  very  important  feature  in  the  case,  possessed  of  a 
face  and  form  whose  loveliness  alone  proclaims  your 
innocence/ 

'  Oh!  Sir,  if  loveliness  had  aught  to  do  with  justice!  But 
could  I,  even  then,  rely  upon  that  claim? ' 

'  Let  me  instruct  Counsel.  He  will  brush  aside  the  evi- 
dence! Good  Heavens!  What  evidence!  A  woman 
swears  that  she  saw  the  property  carried  into  your 
house  during  the  whole  of  a  certain  night.  That  is 
quite  possible.  Certain  shopkeepers  have  been  found  to 
swear  to  some  of  the  articles  found  in  your  rooms  as  their 
own.  How  do  they  know?  One  bale  of  goods  is  like 
another.  That  kind  of  evidence  is  worth  very  little.  But  if 
the  things  are  theirs  how  are  you  to  be  connected  with  them? 
I  shall  prove  that  you  lived  in  a  great  house  with  many  ser- 
vants: that  it  was  quite  easy  to  carry  things  in  and  out  of 
that  house  without  your  knowledge:  I  shall  call  your  ser- 
vants, who  will  swear  that  they  know  nothing  of  any  such 
conveyance  of  goods.  I  will  prepare  a  defence  for  you  in 
which  you  will  state  that  you  had  no  knowledge  of  these 
things:  nor  do  you  know  when,  or  by  whom,  they  were 
brought  into  the  house :  you  will  point  to  your  troop  of  set- 


282  The  Orange  Girl 

vants,  including  footmen,  waiters,  carvers,  cooks,  butlers  and 
women  of  all  kinds:  you  will  ask  if  a  manager  of  any  place 
of  entertainment  is  to  be  held  responsible  for  what  was 
brought  under  his  roof  —  that  you  were  not  in  want  of 
money  and  that  if  you  were  the  rubbish  lying  in  your  garrets 
would  be  of  no  use  to  you.  And  so  on.  There  could  not 
possibly  be  found  a  better  defence/ 

'  I  know  one  better  still/  said  Jenny  quietly. 

'  Tell  me  what  it  is,  then/ 

'  I  have  already  told  you.  Once  more  then.  My  mother 
has  long  been  notorious  as  a  receiver  of  stolen  goods.  The 
people  used  to  bring  their  plunder  to  the  Black  Jack  by  a 
back  entrance:  under  the  house  there  are  stone  vaults  and  a 
great  deal  of  property  can  be  stored  there.  When  I  under- 
stood that  we  should  want  the  evidence  of  my  mother  I  was 
obliged  to  offer  her  a  large  sum  of  money  as  a  bribe  before 
she  would  consent.  When  she  found  that  I  would  give  no 
more,  she  accepted  my  offer  but  on  conditions.  '  Remem- 
ber/ she  said.  '  None  of  us  will  ever  be  able  to  show  our 
faces  at  the  Black  Jack  any  more.  We  should  be  murdered 
for  sure,  for  going  against  our  own  people.' 

'  Well/  said  Mr.  Dewberry, '  doubtless  she  was  right.  But 
what  were  the  conditions?  ' 

'  They  were  connected  with  the  stolen  goods.  The  vaults 
contained  a  great  deal  of  property  which  could  not  be 
sold  at  once.  If  I  would  suffer  her  to  store  that  property  in 
my  house,  she  would  consent.  Sir,  at  that  time,  and  in 
order  to  defeat  those  villains,  I  would  have  consented  to 
anything.  It  was  agreed  that  my  mother  and  sister  should 
move  the  things  by  night  after  the  Black  Jack  was  shut  up. 
I  suppose  the  woman  watched.  So  you  see,  unfortunately,  I 
did  consent  without  thinking/ 

'You  did  consent  —  oh!'  he  groaned.  'But,  after  all, 
your  mother  and  sister  will  not  give  evidence.  Where  is 
the  evidence  of  your  consent?  Are  they  out  of  sight?  Good. 
Let  them  keep  out  of  sight/ 

'  But  there  is  more.  Dear  Sir,  you  will  say  I  am  very 
imprudent.  When  it  was  arranged  for  my  mother  to  go 
away  after  the  trial  and  lie  snug  for  awhile,  she  could  not 
bear  to  think  of  losing  all  her  property,  and  so  —  still  with- 
out thinking  of  consequences  —  I  bought  the  whole  lot/ 

'You  bought!    Oh!    This,  indeed,  I  did  not  expect.    You 


Out  of  the  Frying  Pan  Into  the  Fire    283 

bought  the  whole!  However,  one  comfort,  no  one  knows 
except  your  mother/ 

'  And  my  sister.  Now,  Sir,  Doll  will  not  allow  my  mother 
to  suffer  alone.  If  she  is  accused  of  receiving  I  shall  be 
charged  with  buying  the  property.' 

'  I  wish  the  mob  had  burned  the  place.' 

'  Nobody  can  wish  that  more  than  myself.  Now  consider. 
If  I  plead  "  Not  Guilty  "  and  am  acquitted,  my  mother  will 
certainly  be  arrested.  There  will  be  a  Hue  and  Cry  after 
her,  and  I  shall  then  be  charged  again  with  buying  stolen 
property,  knowing  it  to  be  stolen.  No,  Sir,  my  mind  is 
quite  made  up.  I  shall  plead  Guilty.  If  the  evidence  is  only 
what  we  know,  there  will  be  no  further  inquiry  after  the 
property.  So,  at  least,  my  mother  will  be  safe.' 

Mr.  Dewberry  said  nothing  for  a  while.  '  Would  your 
mother,'  he  asked, '  do  as  much  for  you? ' 

'  I  dare  say  she  would.  We  have  our  virtues,  we  poor 
rogues,  sometimes.' 

He  remonstrated  with  her:  he  repeated  over  and  over 
again  his  assurance  that  her  defence  was  as  perfect  as  a 
defence  could  be.  She  could  not  be  examined  or  cross- 
examined.  The  evidence  of  the  woman  would  be  confined 
to  one  point.  It  was  all  in  vain :  she  was  obstinate. 

'  I  shall  plead  Guilty,'  she  said. 

Finally  he  went  away  and  left  me  alone  with  her. 

'  Jenny/  I  said,  '  sometimes  I  believe  you  are  mad  so  far 
as  your  own  interests  are  concerned/ 

'  No,  Will  —  only  crafty.  Now  listen  a  little.  I  have  one 
firm,  strong,  powerful  friend  —  I  mean  Lord  Brockenhurst. 
If  a  woman  wants  a  man  to  remain  in  love  with  her,  she 
must  keep  him  off.  He  knows  all  about  me,  he  says:  he  has 
made  up  the  prettiest  tale  possible.  And  he  actually  believes 
it/ 

'  Made  up  a  tale,  Jenny? ' 

'  It  was  a  very  pretty  story  that  he  wrote  called  the  "  Case 
of  Clarinda/'  This  is  a  prettier  story  still.  It  appears  that 
I  am  the  lost  and  stolen  child  of  noble  parents.  My  birth 
is  stamped  upon  my  face.  Never  a  gipsy  yet  was  known  to 
have  light  hair  like  mine,  and  blue  eyes  like  mine. 
I  have  been  brought  up  in  ignorance  of  my  parentage, 
by  a  woman  of  dishonest  character  who  stole  me  in 
infancy.  She  made  me,  against  my  wish  (for  a  person 
of  my  rank  naturally  loathes  employment  so  menial) 


284  The  Orange  Girl 

an  Orange  Girl  of  Drury  Lane  Theatre.  Then  I  rose 
above  that  station  by  the  possession  of  parts  inherited, 
and  became  an  actress  and  the  Toast  of  the  Town.  The 
woman  clung  to  her  pretended  daughter  still.  Then  I  left 
the  stage  in  order  to  be  married:  when  I  found  my  husband 
little  better  than  a  sordid  gambler,  I  left  his  house  and 
opened  the  Assembly-room:  the  woman,  for  her  own  safety, 
made,  unknown  to  me,  a  storehouse  of  my  garrets.  That 
is  his  story.  But  the  end  is  better  still.  My  true  nobility 
of  soul,  inherited  from  my  unknown  illustrious  ancestors, 
prompts  me  to  plead  Guilty  in  order  to  save  this  pretended 
mother.  Now,  Will 

'How  does  the  story  help?' 

'  Because  it  has  already  got  abroad.  Because  it  will 
incline  everybody's  heart  to  get  me  saved/ 

'  Yes  —  but  an  acquittal  is  so  easy/ 

'  Will,  you  can  never  understand  what  it  means  to  belong 
to  such  a  family  as  mine.  Suppose  I  get  my  acquittal.  Then 
—  afterwards 

'What  will  follow  afterwards?' 

'  Do  you  think  that  they  will  let  me  return  to  the  stage? 
I  must  face  the  revenge  of  the  family  —  the  family  of  St. 
Giles.  Through  me  the  Bishop  and  the  Captain  have  been 
put  in  pillory  and  are  now  in  prison.  They  belong  to  the 
family  —  my  family,  and  I  have  brought  them  to  ruin  —  I 
myself.  One  of  themselves.  Can  they  forgive  me?  Nay, 
Will,  I  was  brought  up  among  them:  it  is  their  only  point 
of  honour.  Can  I  expect  them  to  forgive  me?  Never  — 
until  —  unless '  She  stopped  and  trembled. 

'Unless  — what?' 

'  Unless  I  pay  for  it,  as  I  have  made  those  two  rogues  pay 
for  it.  Unless  I  pass  through  the  fiery  furnace  of  trial  and 
sentence,  even  if  it  leads  me  to  the  condemned  cell.  After 
that,  Will,  I  may  perhaps  look  for  forgiveness.' 

A  man  must  be  a  stock  or  a  stone  not  to  be  moved  by 
such  words  as  these.  '  Oh,  Jenny ! '  I  said, '  you  have  brought 
all  this  upon  yourself  —  for  me.' 

'  Yes,  Will,  for  you  and  for  yours.  I  have  counted  the  cost. 
Your  life  is  worth  it  all  —  and  more.  Don't  think  I  never 
flinched.  No.  I  had  thoughts  of  letting  everything  go. 
Why  should  I  imperil  myself  —  my  life  —  to  defeat  a  villain? 
It  was  easy  to  do  nothing.  Then  one  night  I  saw  a  ghost  — 
oh!  a  real  ghost.  It  was  Alice,  and  in  her  arms  lay  your 


Out  of  the  Frying  Pan  Into  the  Fire    285 

boy.'  Jenny  rose  slowly.  The  afternoon  was  turning  into 
early  evening:  the  cell  was  already  in  twilight.  She  rose, 
and  gradually,  so  great  is  the  power  of  an  actress,  that  even 
though  my  eyes  were  overcast,  I  saw  the  narrow  cell  no 
longer.  There  was  no  Jenny.  In  her  place  stood  another 
woman.  It  was  Alice.  In  the  arms  of  that  spirit  lay  the 
semblance  of  a  child.  And  the  spirit  spoke.  It  was  the  voice 
of  Alice.  '  Woman! '  she  said,  solemnly,  '  give  me  back  my 
husband.  Give  the  boy  the  honour  of  his  father.  Mur- 
deress! Thou  wouldst  kill  the  father  and  ruin  the  son. 
There  shall  be  no  peace  or  rest  or  quiet  for  thee  to  the  end. 
Save  him  —  for  thou  must.  Suffer  and  endure  what  follows. 
Thou  shalt  suffer,  but  thou  shalt  not  be  destroyed.'  Alice 
spoke:  it  was  as  if  she  came  there  with  intent  to  say  those 
words.  Then  she  vanished.  And  with  a  trembling  of  great 
fear,  even  as  Saul  trembled  when  he  saw  the  spirit  of  Samuel, 
I  saw  Jenny  standing  in  the  place  where  Alice  had  been. 

She  fell  into  her  chair :  she  burst  into  tears  —  the  first  and 
the  last  that  ever  I  saw  upon  her  cheek :  she  covered  her  face 
with  her  hands. 

I  soothed  her,  I  assured  her  of  all  that  I  could  say  in  grat- 
itude infinite:  perhaps  I  mingled  my  tears  with  hers. 

'  Oh,  Will,'  she  cried.  '  Do  not  vex  yourself  over  the  fate 
of  an  orange-wench.  What  does  it  matter  for  such  a  creature 
as  myself?' 

The  Old  Bailey  never  witnessed  a  greater  crowd  than  that 
which  filled  the  court  to  witness  the  trial  of  Mistress  Jenny 
Wilmot,  charged  with  receiving  stolen  goods  knowing  them 
to  be  stolen.  Her  assumed  name  of  Madame  Vallance  was 
forgotten:  her  married  name  of  Halliday  was  forgot- 
ten: on  everybody's  tongue  she  was  Jenny  Wilmot 
the  actress:  Jenny  Wilmot  the  Toast  of  the  Town:  Jenny 
Wilmot  of  Drury  Lane.  They  spoke  of  her  beauty,  her 
grace,  her  vivacity:  these  were  still  remembered  in  spite  of 
her  absence  from  the  stage  of  nearly  two  years.  Now  two 
years  is  a  long  time  for  an  actress,  unless  she  is  very  good 
indeed,  to  be  remembered.  But  the  '  Case  of  Clarinda '  was 
by  this  time  known  to  every  club  and  coffee-house  in  Lon- 
don: not  a  City  clerk  or  shopman  but  had  the  story  pat,  with 
oaths  and  sighs  and  tears.  My  Lord  Brockenhurst  had  done 
his  share  in  changing  public  opinion,  and  the  later  story, 
that  of  the  noble  origin  of  the  stolen  girl,  was  also  whis- 
pered from  mouth  to  mouth. 


286  The  Orange  Girl 

The  court,  I  say,  was  crowded.  Behind  the  chairs  of  the 
Lord  Mayor  and  Judge,  the  Aldermen  and  the  Sheriffs,  were 
other  chairs  filled  with  great  ladies:  the  public  gallery  was 
also  filled  with  ladies  who  were  admitted  by  tickets  issued  by 
sheriffs:  the  entrances  and  doorways  and  the  body  of  the 
court  were  rilled  with  gentlemen,  actors  and  actresses  mixed 
with  an  evil-looking  and  evil-smelling  company  from  St. 
Giles's. 

The  witnesses,  among  whom  I  failed  to  observe  the 
revengeful  woman,  consisted,  I  was  pleased  to  see,  of  no 
more  than  the  two  or  three  shopkeepers  who  were  waiting  to 
swear  to  their  own  property.  They  stood  beside  the  witness- 
box,  wearing  the  look  of  determined  and  pleased  revenge 
common  to  those  who  have  been  robbed.  The  Jury  were 
sworn  one  after  the  other,  and  took  their  seats.  I  could  not 
fail  to  observe  that  the  unrelenting  faces  with  which  they 
had  received  me,  the  highwayman,  were  changed  into  faces 
of  sweet  commiseration.  If  ever  Jury  betrayed  by  outward 
signs  a  full  intention,  beforehand,  of  bringing  in  a  verdict  of 
Not  Guilty,  with  the  addition,  if  the  Judge  would  allow  it, 
that  the  lady  left  the  dock  without  a  blemish  upon  her  char- 
acter, it  was  that  jury  —  yet  a  jury  composed  entirely  of  per- 
sons engaged  in  trade,  who  would  naturally  be  severe  upon 
the  crime  of  receiving  stolen  goods. 

When  the  Court  were  ready  to  take  their  places  the  pris- 
oner was  brought  in,  and  all  the  people  murmured  with 
astonishment  and  admiration  and  pity,  for  the  prisoner  was 
dressed  as  for  her  wedding  day.  She  was  all  in  white  with- 
out a  touch  of  any  other  colour.  Her  lovely  fair  hair  was 
dressed  without  powder  over  a  high  cushion  with  white  silk 
ribbons  hanging  to  her  shoulders:  her  white  silk  frock 
drawn  back  in  front,  showed  a  white  satin  petticoat:  white 
silk  gloves  covered  her  hands  and  arms:  she  carried  a  nose- 
gay of  white  jonquils:  a  necklace  of  pearls  hung  round  her 
neck :  her  belt  was  of  worked  silver.  She  took  her  place  in 
the  dock:  she  disposed  her  flowers  between  the  spikes, 
among  the  sprigs  of  rue.  Her  air  was  calm  and  collected: 
not  boastful:  sad  as  was  natural:  resigned  as  was  becoming: 
neither  bold  nor  shrinking:  there  was  no  affectation  of  con- 
fidence nor  any  agitation  of  terror.  She  was  like  a  Queen: 
she  was  full  of  dignity.  She  seemed  to  say,  *  Look  at  me, 
all  of  you.  Can  you  believe  that  I  —  I  —  I  —  such  as  I  — 
Jenny  Wilmot  —  could  actually  stoop  to  receive  a  lot  of 


Out  of  the  Frying  Pan  Into  the  Fire    287 

stolen  rags  and  old  petticoats  and  bales  of  stuff  worth  no 
more  altogether  than  two  or  three  guineas?' 

During  the  whole  time  of  the  trial  the  eyes  of  everybody 
in  court,  I  observed,  were  turned  upon  the  prisoner.  Never 
before,  I  am  sure,  did  a  more  lovely  prisoner  stand  in  the 
Dock:  never  was  there  one  whose  position  was  more  com- 
miserated: they  were  all,  I  verily  believe,  ready  to  set  her 
free  at  once:  but  for  the  act  and  deed  of  the  prisoner  herself. 
Her  attitude:  her  face:  her  dress  all  proclaimed  aloud  the 
words  which  I  have  written  down  above.  Everybody  had 
seen  her  on  the  stage  playing  principally  the  coquette,  the 
woman  of  fashion  and  folly,  the  hoyden,  the  affected  prude 
—  but  not  a  part  like  this.  '  Ye  gods ! '  I  heard  a  young 
barrister  exclaim.  '  She  looks  like  an  angel :  an  angel  sent 
down  to  Newgate!'  The  strange,  new,  unexpected  look 
of  virginal  innocence  stamped  on  the  brow  of  the  once  dar- 
ing and  headlong  actress  startled  the  people :  it  went  to  the 
heart  of  everyone:  it  made  everybody  present  feel  that  they 
were  assisting  at  a  martyrdom:  nay,  as  if  they  were  them- 
selves, unwillingly,  bringing  faggots  to  pile  the  fire.  Before 
the  trial  began  many  an  eye  was  dim,  many  a  cheek  was 
humid. 

The  Court  entered:  the  people  rose:  the  Counsel  bowed 
to  the  Bench:  the  Lord  Mayor  took  his  seat:  beside  him 
the  Judge:  with  him  the  Aldermen  and  the  Sheriffs:  the 
prisoner  also  did  reverence  to  the  Court  like  a  gentle- 
woman receiving  company.  One  would  not  have  been 
surprised  had  my  Lord  Mayor  stepped  down  and  kissed 
her  on  the  cheek  in  City  fashion.  But  neither  in  her  look 
nor  in  her  actions  was  there  betrayed  the  least  sign  of 
degradation,  fear,  or  shame. 

When  a  somewhat  lengthy  indictment  had  been  read, 
she  raised  her  head.  '  My  Lord,  I  would  first  desire  to  ask 
for  my  name  to  be  amended/ 

'  What  amendment  do  you  desire?  ' 

'  I  am  described  as  Madame  Vallance,  alias  Jenny  Wilmot, 
actress.  It  is  true  that  Jenny  Wilmot  was  my  maiden  name, 
and  that  I  assumed  the  name  of  Madame  Vallance  when  I 
left  the  stage  and  opened  the  Assembly  Rooms.  My  true 
name  is  Jenny  Halliday,  and  I  am  the  wife  of  Mr.  Matthew 
Halliday,  son  of  Sir  Peter  Halliday,  Alderman,  and  partner 
in  the  House  of  Halliday  Brothers,  West  India  Wharf,  by 
the  Steel  Yard  in  the  Parish  of  All  Hallows  the  Great1 


288  The  Orange  Girl 

The  Judge,  whom  nothing  could  surprise,  answered  with 
the  awful  coldness  which  becomes  a  Judge  and  so  terrifies 
a  prisoner.  '  There  is  no  dispute  concerning  identity.  Plead 
in  your  married  name,  if  you  will.' 

'  Then,  my  Lord,  I  plead  Guilty/ 

She  had  done  it,  then.  With  a  case  so  strong:  with  an 
assurance  of  acquittal,  she  had  pleaded  Guilty.  My  heart 
sank.  Yet  I  knew  what  she  would  do.  The  Lord  Mayor 
whispered  the  judge  again. 

'  You  are  ignorant  of  law  and  procedure  in  Courts  of 
Justice/  he  said.  '  I  will  allow  you  to  withdraw  that  plea. 
Have  you  no  Counsel  ?' 

'  I  need  none,  my  Lord.    I  plead  Guilty/ 

The  people  all  held  their  breath.  Then  the  '  Case  of 
Clarinda '  was  true  after  all. 

'  I  am  anxious/  the  Judge  went  on,  '  that  you  should 
have  a  fair  trial.  Appoint  a  Counsel.  Advise  with  him/ 

'  I  plead  Guilty'  she  repeated. 

The  Judge  threw  himself  back  in  his  seat.  '  Let  the  trial 
proceed/  he  said. 

The  Counsel  for  the  Prosecution  opened  the  case.  It  was, 
he  said  a  remarkable  case,  because  there  seemed  no  sufficient 
reason  or  temptation  for  breaking  the  law,  or  for  receiving 
stolen  property.  The  information  was  laid  by  a  woman 
living  in  the  purlieus  of  St.  Giles's  Parish:  she  was,  very 
probably,  a  person  of  no  character  at  all:  but  character 
was  not  wanted  in  this  case  because  her  information  would 
be  supplemented  by  the  evidence  of  several  persons  of  the 
highest  respectability  who  would  swear  to  certain  articles 
as  their  own  property.  The  woman  in  fact,  would  depose 
to  the  conveyance  of  stolen  goods  to  the  house  in  question : 
she  gave  information  the  goods  were  actually  found  there: 
and  other  witnesses  would  claim  as  their  own  many  things 
among  the  property  so  found. 

'  Gentlemen  of  the  Jury/  he  went  on,  '  this  is  a  case  of  a 
painful  nature.  The  prisoner  who  pleads  guilty  —  who 
rejects  the  clemency  —  the  kindly  benevolence  —  of  the 
Court — is  a  person  who,  as  you  know,  a  year  or  two  ago 
was  delighting  the  town  by  the  vivacity  of  her  acting  and 
the  beauty  of  her  person:  she  left  the  stage,  the  world 
knew  not  why,  or  what  had  become  of  her:  it  now  appears 
that  she  took  a  certain  house  in  Soho  Square,  where  she 
carried  on  assemblies,  masquerades,  and  other  amusements^ 


Out  of  the  Frying  Pan  Into  the  Fire    289 

still  delighting  the  town:  there  is  nothing  to  make  one 
believe  that  she  was  in  pecuniary  embarrassments:  and  we 
now  learn  that  she  is  actually  the  wife  of  a  City  merchant 
of  great  wealth  and  reputation.'  Here  his  neighbour  hur- 
riedly wrote  something  on  a  paper:  and  handed  it  to  him. 
'My  learned  friend/  he  said  correcting  himself,  'informs 
me  that  this  House,  until  recently  in  the  highest  repute,  has 
fallen  into  evil  times  and  is  now  bankrupt.  But,  gentlemen, 
whether  the  prisoner  attempted  to  stave  off  her  husband's 
bankruptcy  or  not,  the  property  which  she  received  was  of 
so  trifling  a  character  that  it  would  seem  as  if  she  was 
breaking  the  Law  for  the  sake  of  a  few  shillings.  The 
things  found  in  her  possession  were  not  those  which  we  are 
accustomed  to  regard  as  the  booty  of  robbers:  there  are  no 
jewels,  gold  chains,  silver  cups,  lace,  silks  or  anything  at 
all  but  things  belonging  to  poor  people  or  to  people  just 
raised  above  poverty.  There  are  women's  petticoats,  men's 
nightcaps:  watches  in  tortoise-shell  cases:  knives  and  forks: 
small  spoons,  handkerchiefs:  stockings,  even:  wigs,  and  so 
forth.  I  expected,  I  confess  when  I  surveyed  this  rubbish, 
to  hear  a  defence  on  the  ground  that  such  a  person  in  a 
position  so  responsible  —  with  friends  so  numerous,  some 
of  them  of  high  rank,  could  not  condescend  to  countenance 
the  mean  and  sordid  traffic.  I  confess  that  I  looked  forward 
to  this  trial  as  a  means  of  finding  out  the  real  criminal  who 
had  taken  advantage  of  access  to  the  house  and  impudently 
used  the  rooms  in  Madame  Valance's  premises  for  their 
own  dishonest  purposes.  That  expectation  must  be  now 
disappointed:  that  hope  must  be  abandoned.  By  her  own 
repeated  confession,  the  prisoner  has  assured  the  Court 
that  she  is  guilty. 

'  The  case/  he  went  on,  '  has  grown  out  of  one  recently 
heard  before  this  Court.  It  was  one  in  which  the  present 
prisoner  exerted  herself  very  actively  in  the  cause  of  a  man 
named  Halliday,  presumably  a  connection  of  her  own  by 
marriage.  Halliday  was  charged  with  highway  robbery. 
The  evidence  was  clear  and  direct.  The  prisoner  before 
us,  however,  with  great  activity  and  courage,  brought 
together  an  overwhelming  mass  of  evidence  which  proved 
that  the  charge  was  a  conspiracy  of  the  blackest  and  foul- 
est kind.  The  conspirators  are  now  undergoing  their  sen- 
tence. By  this  brave  action  an  innocent  life  was  saved  and 
four  villains  were  sent  to  prison.  I  mention  the  fact  because 


290  The  Orange  Girl 

it  shows  that  the  prisoner  possesses  many  noble  qualities, 
which  make  it  the  more  marvellous  that  she  should  be  guilty 
of  acts  so  mean,  so  paltry,  so  sordid.  The  woman  who  will 
appear  before  you  was  the  mistress  of  one  of  these  con- 
spirators. Her  information  was  doubtless  laid  as  an  act  of 
revenge.  Yet  we  cannot  weigh  motives.'  And  so  on. 

It  appeared  that  the  evidence  was  of  a  merely  formal  char- 
acter and  that  the  witnesses  would  not  be  cross-examined. 
The  first  witness  was  the  woman  of  whom  you  know.  She, 
among  other  women  prisoners  in  Newgate,  had  been  kept 
from  starvation  by  Jenny;  this  fact  might  have  softened  her 
heart:  but  unfortunately  the  recent  sufferings  of  her  lover 
in  pillory  re-awakened  her  desire  for  revenge.  She  was  an 
eager  witness:  she  wanted  to  begin  at  once  and  to  tell  her 
tale  her  own  way.  The  main  point  now  was  a  statement 
invented  since  her  evidence  before  the  magistrate.  She  now 
declared  that  she  herself  was  engaged  by  the  prisoner  to 
carry  the  property  to  the  Assembly  Rooms.  This  abomin- 
able perjury  she  stoutly  maintained.  The  Counsel  for  the 
Prosecution  questioned  her  apparently  in  order  to  elicit  the 
facts:  in  reality,  as  I  now  believe,  in  order  to  make  her  con- 
tradict herself.  She  was  asked  where  she  put  the  things: 
why  in  the  garret:  what  servants  helped  her:  who  received 
her:  who  carried  candles  for  her:  why  the  prisoner  selected 
her  for  the  job:  what  share  she  had  in  the  riots:  whether  she 
was  in  prison  on  that  account:  and  so  on.  She  was  a  poor 
ignorant  creature,  thirsting  for  revenge:  therefore  she  main- 
tained stoutly  that  the  prisoner  had  paid  her  for  moving 
the  goods  into  her  house. 

Whether  by  accident  or  design,  nothing  was  said  about 
the  Black  Jack  or  about  the  landlady  of  that  establishment. 
I  suppose  that  the  Prosecution  was  only  anxious  to  establish 
the  bare  facts  to  which  the  prisoner  had  pleaded  Guilty. 

The  manner  in  which  the  witness  gave  her  evidence:  the 
fire  in  her  eyes  and  in  her  cheeks:  the  dirty  slovenly  look  of 
the  woman:  her  uncombed  hair:  her  voice:  her  gestures:  her 
manifest  perjuries  and  contradictions:  disgusted  all  who 
looked  on:  the  Judge  laid  down  his  pen  and  leaned  back  in 
his  chair  as  if  what  she  said  was  of  no  concern:  the  Alder- 
men looked  at  the  Judge  as  much  as  to  ask  how  long  this 
was  to  be  permitted:  the  Jury  whispered  and  shook  their 
heads:  the  ladies  present  knotted  their  brows  and  fanned 
themselves  and  whispered  each  other  angrily.  At  last  she 


Out  of  the  Frying  Pan  Into  the  Fire    291 

sat  down  flaming  and  vehement  to  the  end.  Her  evidence 
had  in  fact  ruined  the  case.  Why,  she  had  the  impudence 
to  allege  that  the  property  she  had  herself  carried  to  the 
house  was  received  by  Madame  herself,  who  ordered  her 
footmen  to  carry  it  to  the  garrets. 

She  was  followed  by  the  shopkeepers  who  had  been 
robbed.  They  swore  to  certain  goods  of  no  great  value, 
which  had  been  stolen  from  them.  Their  evidence  was 
quickly  given.  There  was,  in  fact,  no  evidence  really  impli- 
cating the  prisoner  except  that  of  the  woman.  There  was 
clearly  something  behind:  something  not  explained,  which 
everybody  was  whispering  to  each  other  —  it  had  been 
revealed  in  the  famous  paper  called  '  The  Case  of  Clarinda/ 
And  now  I  understood  what  Jenny  meant  when  she  said 
that  her  defence  would  bring  her  mother  into  the  business. 
For  Counsel  would  have  inquired  into  the  Black  Jack  story 
and  asked  what  the  things  were  doing  there:  how  they 
came  there :  who  was  the  landlord :  with  many  other  particu- 
lars, some  of  which  would  have  brought  out  the  truth.  As 
for  the  woman,  whether  by  feminine  cunning  or  by  accident, 
she  concealed  the  relationship  between  Jenny  and  the  Black 
Jack:  she  had  really  seen  the  sister  and  the  mother  carrying 
things  to  the  house  in  Soho  Square:  she  did  not  then  know 
that  Madame  Vallance  was  Jenny:  she  found  out  the  fact  at 
the  trial:  she  then  invented  the  story  of  being  hired  for 
carrying  the  property  because  she  knew  it  was  there.  All 
that  the  Court  knew,  however,  was  the  fact  that  such  a 
woman  as  stood  before  them,  this  angel  of  loveliness  this 
woman  of  position:  had  actually  confessed  to  the  crime  of 
receiving  the  miserable  odds  and  ends  —  the  rags  and  taw- 
dry finery  —  stolen  from  quite  poor  people.  It  was  amaz- 
ing: it  was  incredible. 

'  That  is  my  case,  my  Lord,'  said  the  Counsel  with  a  sigh, 
as  if  he  was  ashamed  of  having  conducted  it  at  all. 

'  Prisoner  at  the  Bar/  said  the  Judge,  (  you  have  heard  the 
verdict  of  the  Jury.  You  may  now  say  anything  you  wish  in 
explanation  or  extenuation/ 

'  What  can  I  have  to  say,  my  Lord/  she  replied  simply 
but  with  dignity,  '  since  I  pleaded  guilty?  Nevertheless,  I 
have  to  thank  the  Counsel  for  the  Prosecution,  who  almost 
proved  my  pleading  impossible/ 

The  Judge  summed  up  in  a  few  words.  The  verdict  of  the 
Jury  included  a  recommendation  to  mercy. 


292  The  Orange  Girl 

The  Judge  assumed  the  black  cap:  he  pronounced  sen- 
tence of  Death:  the  Ordinary  appeared  in  his  robes  and 
prayed  that  the  Lord  would  have  mercy  on  her  soul:  the 
warder  tied  the  usual  slip  of  string  about  the  prisoner's 
thumb  to  show  what  hanging  meant.  The  only  person 
unaffected  by  the  sentence  was  the  prisoner  herself.  Never 
before  had  she  acted  so  finely:  never  before,  indeed,  had 
Jenny  been  called  upon  to  play  such  a  part.  She  stood 
with  clasped  hands  gazing  into  the  face  of  the  Judge,  not 
with  defiance,  not  with  wonder:  not  with  resentment:  but 
with  a  meek  acceptance.  The  women  in  the  court,  the  great 
ladies  behind  the  Lord  Mayor  wept  and  sobbed  without 
restraint:  even  the  younger  members  of  the  outer  Bar  were 
affected  to  unmanly  humidity  of  the  eyes. 

Now  when  the  verdict  of  the  Jury  was  pronounced,  and 
before  the  sentence  of  the  Judge,  Jenny  did  a  strange 
thing,  which  moved  the  people  almost  more  than  the  words 
of  the  sentence.  She  took  up  a  small  roll  which  lay  before 
her.  It  was  a  black  lace  veil.  She  threw  this  over  her 
head:  it  fell  down  upon  her  shoulders  nearly  to  her  waist. 
She  held  it  up  while  the  Judge  was  speaking:  when  he 
finished  she  dropped  it  over  her  face.  So  with  the  veil  of 
Death  falling  over  her  spotless  robes  of  Innocence  she 
stepped  down  from  the  dock  and  followed  the  men  in  blue 
back  to  the  prison.  '  Ye  Gods ! '  cried  one  of  the  barristers, 
'she  is  nothing  less  than  the  Virgin  Martyr!'  Indeed  she 
seemed  nothing  less  than  one  of  the  Christian  martyrs,  the 
confessors  faithful  to  the  end  whom  no  tortures  and  no 
punishment  could  turn  aside  from  the  path  of  martyrdom. 

I  hurried  round  to  the  prison.  'Ah!  Sir,'  sighed  a  turn- 
key, '  she  must  now  go  to  the  condemned  cell.  Pity!  Pity! ' 
They  were  all  her  friends  —  every  one  of  these  officers,  hard- 
ened by  years  of  daily  contact  with  the  scum  of  the  people. 
'  But  they  won't  hang  her.  They  can't.' 

'  And  all  for  her  mother,'  said  another.  '  I  remember  old 
Sal  of  the  Black  Jack,  also  her  sister  Dolly.  All  to  save  that 
fat  old  carrion  carcass.  Well,  well.  You  can  go  in,  sir/ 

Jenny  was  standing  by  the  table.  She  greeted  me  with 
a  sad  smile.  '  It  is  all  over  at  last,'  she  said.  *  It  is  harder 
to  play  a  part  on  a  real  stage  than  in  a  theatre.  Did  I  play 
well,  Will?' 

'You  left  a  House  in  tears,  Jenny.  Oh!'  I  cried  impa- 
tiently, '  Is  this  what  you  wanted  ? ' 


Out  of  the  Frying  Pan  Into  the  Fire    293 

'  Yes,  I  am  quite  satisfied.  I  really  was  afraid  at  one  time 
that  the  Counsel  would  throw  up  the  case  because  his  lead- 
ing witness  was  so  gross  and  impudent  a  liar.  Didst  ever 
hear  a  woman  perjure  herself  so  roundly  and  so  often? 
What  next? ' 

'  Yes,  Jenny.     What  next? ' 

'  I  don't  know,  Will.  The  Assembly  Rooms  which  are 
taken  in  my  name  are  seized,  I  hear,  by  my  husband's  credit- 
ors. But  all  the  furniture  and  fittings  have  been  destroyed 
already.  That  is  done  with,  then.  Am  I  to  begin  again 
in  order  to  have  everything  seized  again? '  She  talked  as 
if  her  immediate  enlargement  was  certain.  I  could  not 
have  the  heart  to  whisper  discouragement. 

'  There  is  still  the  stage,  Jenny.  The  world  will  welcome 
you  back  again.' 

'Do  you  think  so?  The  Orange  Girl  they  could  stand; 
it  pleased  the  Pit  to  remember  how  they  used  to  buy  my 
oranges.  But  the  woman  who  has  come  out  of  a  con- 
demned cell?  The  woman  who  pleaded  guilty  to  receiving 
stolen  goods?  I  doubt  it  will.' 

|     *  What  does  that  matter?     Everybody  knows  why  you 
pleaded  Guilty.     You  are  Clarinda.' 

'  An  audience  at  a  theatre,  Will,  sometimes  shows  neither 
pity  nor  consideration  for  an  actress.  They  say  what  they 
like:  they  shout  what  they  like:  they  insult  her  as  they 
please  —  an  actress  is  fair  game:  to  make  an  actress  run 
off  the  stage  in  a  flood  of  tears  is  what  they  delight  in.  They 
would  be  pleased  to  ask  what  I  have  done  with  the  stolen 
goods.' 

'  What  will  you  do  then,  Jenny? ' 

There  came  along,  at  this  point,  another  visitor.  It  was 
none  other  than  the  Counsel  for  the  Prosecution.  He  stood 
at  the  door  of  the  cell,  but  seeing  me,  he  hesitated. 

'  Come  in,  Sir,'  said  Jenny.  '  You  wish  to  speak  to  me. 
Speak.  This  gentleman,  my  husband's  first  cousin,  can 
hear  all  that  you  have  to  ask  or  I  to  reply.' 

'  Madame,'  he  bowed  as  to  a  Countess.  '  This  is  a 
wretched  place  for  you.  I  trust,  however  that  it  will  not  be 
for  long.  The  recommendation  of  the  Jury  will  certainly 
have  weight:  the  Judge  is  benevolently  disposed:  you  have 
many  friends.' 

'  I  hope,  Sir,  that  I  have  some  friends  who  will  not 
believe  that  I  have  bought  a  parcel  of  stolen  petticoats?' 


294  The  Orange  Girl 

'Your  friends  will  stand  by  you:  of  that  I  am  certain. 
Madame,  I  venture  here  to  ask  you,  if  I  may  do  so  without 
the  charge  of  impertinent  curiosity  —  believe  me  —  I  am 
not  so  actuated ' 

'  Surely,  Sir.     Ask  what  you  will/ 

'  I  would  ask  you  then,  why  you  pleaded  Guilty.  The 
case  was  certain  from  the  outset  to  break  down.  I  might 
have  pressed  the  witness  as  to  the  property  itself,  but  I 
refrained  because  her  perjuries  were  manifest.  Why  then, 
Madame  —  if  I  may  ask  —  why?' 

'Perhaps  I  had  learned  that  certain  things  had  been 
sent  to  my  garrets,  but  I  paid  no  thought  to  any  risk  or 
danger ' 

'  That  might  have  been  pleaded.' 

'The  case  being  over,  that  property  can  bring  no  other 
person  into  trouble,  I  believe?' 

'  I  should  think  not.     The  case  is  ended.' 

'  Then,  Sir,  I  pray  you  to  consider  this  question.  If  some 
person  very  closely  connected  with  yourself  were  actually 
guilty  of  this  crime:  if  you  yourself  were  charged  with  it: 
if  your  acquittal  would  lead  to  that  person's  conviction, 
what  would  you  do?' 

'  That  is  what  they  whisper/  he  replied.  '  Madame,  I 
hope  that  such  a  choice  may  never  be  made  to  me.  Is  this 
true  —  what  you  suggest  —  what  people  whisper?' 

'  Many  things  are  whispered  concerning  me,'  said  Jenny 
proudly.  '  I  do  not  heed  those  whispers.  Well,  Sir,  such 
a  choice  has  been  presented  to  me.  It  is  part  of  the  penalty 
of  my  birth  that  such  a  choice  could  be  possible.' 

'Then  it  is  true?'  he  insisted;  'the  "Case  of  Clarinda" 
is  true? ' 

'  Sir,  it  is  true  in  many  points.  I  was  once  an  Orange 
Girl  of  Drury  Lane.  My  people  were  residents  of  St. 
Giles's  in  the  Fields.  I  was  brought  up  in  the  courts  and 
lanes  of  that  quarter.  You,  Sir,  are  a  lawyer.  Need  I 
explain  further  the  nature  of  that  choice?' 

'  Madam,'  said  the  lawyer,  '  I  think  you  are  the  best 
woman  in  the  world  as  you  are  the  loveliest.'  So  saying 
he  lifted  her  hand  to  his  lips,  bowing  low,  and  left  us. 

'  Well,'  said  Jenny,  '  I  think  I  have  done  pretty  well  for 
my  mother  and  for  Doll.  Their  slate  is  clean  again.  They 
can  begin  fair.  Receiving  has  been  her  principal  trade 
50  long  that  she  is  not  likely  to  be  satisfied  with  drawing 


Out  of  the  Frying  Pan  Into  the  Fire    295 

beer.  But  the  past  is  wiped  out.  And  as  for  myself  — 
She  sighed.  'What  next?  Matthew  is  where  the  wicked 
can  no  longer  trouble.  Merridew,  poor  wretch!  has  also 
ceased  from  troubling.  My  friends  of  St.  Giles's  will  be 
satisfied  because  I  have  now  done  what  I  told  you  I  should 
do,  and  gone  through  the  fiery  furnace.  Why/  she  looked 
around  the  bare  and  narrow  walls,  '  I  believe  I  am  in  it  still. 
But  the  flames  do  not  burn,  nor  does  the  hot  air  scorch  — 
believe  me,  dear  Will  —  oh!  believe  me  —  I  would  do  it 
all  again  —  all  again  —  I  regret  nothing  —  Will,  nothing. 
Assure  Alice  that  I  would  do  it  all  again  —  exactly  as  I 
have  done/ 
With  a  full  heart  I  left  her.  What  next?  What  next? 


CHAPTER  XXII 

FROM    THE    CONDEMNED    CELL 

AND  now,  indeed,  began  the  time  of  endurance  and  sus- 
pense. To  the  bravest  of  women  came  moments  of  depres- 
sion—  what  else  could  be  expected  when  her  days  and 
nights  were  spent  in  a  condemned  cell?  In  this  gloomy 
apartment  Jenny  was  now  compelled  to  live.  The  place 
lies  in  a  corner  of  the  women's  yard  or  Court;  it  contains 
two  rooms,  one  of  them  a  small  bedroom,  the  other,  when 
there  are  only  one  or  two  in  residence,  a  living  room.  One 
other  prisoner  was  already  in  this  cell,  awaiting  her  time 
for  execution.  Alas!  she  was  a  mere  child,  not  more  than 
sixteen,  and  looking  younger:  a  poor,  ignorant  creature 
who  had  never  learned  the  difference  between  right  and 
wrong:  who  had  been  brought  up,  as  was  Jenny  herself, 
among  children  of  rogues,  themselves  rogues  from  infancy. 
The  law  was  going  to  kill  this  child  because  the  law  itself 
had  found  no  way  to  protect  her.  Alas  for  our  humanity! 
Alas  for  our  statesmen!  Alas  for  our  Church!  Will  there 
never  arise  a  Prophet  in  the  land  to  show  us  how  much 
better  it  is  to  teach  than  to  kill? 

Outside,  the  yard  was  all  day  long  filled  with  women 
either  convicted  or  waiting  to  be  tried:  some  of  them  were 


296  The  Orange  Girl 

in  prison  for  short  sentences:  some  were  waiting  to  be 
whipped:  some  were  waiting  for  ships  to  carry  them  to  the 
plantations:  all  alike  were  foul  in  language;  unwashed, 
uncombed  and  draggled;  rough  and  coarse  and  common. 
Such  women,  gathered  together  in  one  place,  make  each 
other  worse:  they  swear  like  men:  they  fight  like  men:  they 
drink  like  men:  their  hair  hangs  loose  over  their  shoulders: 
the  '  loose  jumps '  of  leather  which  they  use  for  stays  are 
never  changed:  the  ragged  kerchief  over  their  shoulders  is 
never  washed:  the  linsey-woolsey  frock  is  foul  with  every 
kind  of  stain:  their  loud  harsh  voices  have  no  feminine 
softness:  their  red  brawny  arms  terrify  the  spectator:  in 
their  faces,  even  of  the  youngest,  is  no  look  of  Venus. 

Taken  to  this  place,  Jenny  had  to  wait,  expectant,  for  the 
relief  that  was  promised  her  by  Lord  Brockenhurst.  Her 
cheek  grew  pale  and  thin:  her  eyes  became  unnaturally 
bright:  I  feared  gaol  fever  but  happily  she  was  spared  this 
dreadful  malady.  Yet  she  kept  up  the  appearance  of  cheer- 
fulness, and  greeted  me  every  day  with  a  smile  that  was 
never  forced,  and  a  grasp  that  was  never  chilled. 

For  exercise  Jenny  had  the  crowded  yard.  There,  with 
no  one  to  protect  her,  she  walked  a  little  every  morning, 
the  women  falling  back,  right  and  left,  to  let  her  pass. 
They  offered  her  no  molestation.  To  save' her  fancy  man 
—  so  ran  the  legend  —  she  had  compassed  the  ruin  of  her 
old  friends:  with  this  object  ('twas  the  only  one  they  could 
understand)  she  put  up  her  mother  to  bear  witness  against 
her  own  customers.  Well :  it  was  to  save  her  fancy  man  — 
the  same  came  every  day  to  see  her  in  the  prison:  that  was 
some  excuse  for  her:  would  not  any  woman  do  as  much  for 
her  man?  And  now  she  was  herself  condemned  all  through 
the  other  woman  whose  man  she  had  put  in  prison  and  in 
pillory.  So  far,  then,  they  were  quits,  and  might  all  become 
friends  again.  And  they  remembered  as  a  point  in  Jenny's 
favour  that  the  noble  welcome  with  which  the  thief-taker 
was  received  —  a  thing  at  which  all  Roguery  rejoiced  — 
was  entirely  due  to  her  exertions.  These  things  passed 
from  one  to  the  other  clothed  in  the  language  peculiar  to 
such  people. 

Jenny  took  two  or  three  turns  in  the  yard,  every  morn- 
ing when  the  prison  air  is  freshest,  and  then  went  back  to 
her  cell,  where  she  remained  for  the  rest  of  the  day. 

In  those  days  she  talked  to  me  more  freely  than  before 


Out  of  the  Frying  Pan  Into  the  Fire    297 

and  a  great  deal  about  herself.  She  was  forced  to  talk  and 
to  think  about  herself,  for  the  first  time  in  her  life.  Her 
thoughts  went  back  to  the  past  when  all  she  could  expect 
was  to  become  such  as  the  poor  creatures  with  her  in  the 
prison.  Yet  these  poor  women,  whom  I  found  so  terrible  to 
look  upon  and  to  hear,  she  regarded  with  a  tenderness 
which  I  thought  excessive.  I  now  understand  that  it  was 
more  humane  than  at  that  time  was  within  my  compre- 
hension. 

'  They  are  not  terrible  to  me/  she  said.  *  I  know  them 
—  what  they  are  and  what  has  made  them  so.  I  can  speak 
their  language,  but  I  must  not  let  them  know  that  I  under- 
stand. It  is  the  Thieves'  tongue  made  up  of  Gipsy  and  of 
Tinkers'  talk.  They  talk  about  me  all  day  —  even  when  I 
am  in  their  midst.  Poor  wretches!  They  are  not  so  bad 
as  they  look/ 

'  Nay,  Jenny,  but  to  see  them  beside  you! ' 

'  If  we  grow  up  among  people,  Will,  and  are  used  to 
them,  we  do  not  think  much  of  their  manners  and  their 
looks.  When  I  was  a  child  I  played  among  them.  Many 
a  cuff  have  I  had:  many  a  slap  for  getting  in  their  way: 
but  many  a  bit  of  gingerbread  and  many  an  apple.  You 
think  them  terrible.  If  they  were  clean  and  had  their  hair 
dressed  they  would  not  be  terrible  any  longer.  Oh!  Will, 
they  are  not  very  far  from  the  fine  ladies  —  no  —  nor  so 
very  much  below  the  best  of  good  women,  even  Alice. 
They  are  women,  though  you  flog  them  at  Bridewell  and 
hang  them  at  Tyburn  — they  are  still  women.  And  they 
love  —  in  their  poor  fond  faithful  way  —  the  very  hand  that 
knocks  them  down  and  the  very  foot  that  kicks  them. 
They  love  —  Oh!  the  poor  women  —  they  love/ 

She  broke  off,  with  a  sob  in  her  voice.  I  marvelled  at 
the  time  because  I  had  always  looked  upon  the  creatures 
as  something  below  humanity:  as  belonging  to  a  tribe  of 
savages  such  as  Swift  called  the  Yahoos.  Afterwards,  I 
understood;  and  then  I  marvelled  more. 

Another  time  she  talked  about  her  profession  as  an 
actress.  '  Acting/  she  said,  '  cannot  be  otherwise  than 
delightful  —  but  it  takes  an  actor  away  from  himself.  When 
one  has  been  two  or  three  years  on  the  stage  nothing  is  left 
but  the  stage  and  the  dressing-room:  the  company  behind 
the  scenes  and  the  audience  in  front.  Nothing  is  real. 
Everything  that  happens  is  but  a  scene  in  a  play.  When 


298  The  Orange  Girl 

the  curtain  drops  upon  this  Act,  that  is,  when  they  let  me 
go,  I  shall  rest  for  five  minutes  while  the  next  Act  is  getting 
ready:  the  play  of  Clarinda,  or  the  Orange  Girl,  has  some 
excellent  scenes.  You  remember  that  scene  when  the  mob 
wrecked  the  house:  and  the  scene  when  the  mob  pelted 
Mr.  Merridew  —  well,  I  should  not  be  in  the  least  surprised 
to  meet  Mr.  Merridew  himself  walking  along  Holborn 
with  one  eye  on  a  young  thief  in  training  for  a  shop-lifter: 
and  I  might  look  in  at  the  Black  Jack  and  see  my  mother 
taking  her  morning  dram  and  Doll  adding  up  the  scores 
upon  the  slate.  In  five  minutes  after  the  curtain  has 
dropped  what  has  happened  is  little  more  to  me  than  the 
last  scene  in  the  play  at  Drury.  Why,  if  I  were  put  into 
the  cart  and  carried  out  to  Tyburn  I  should  still  be  the 
heroine  playing  my  part  to  a  breathless  house.  And  I 
believe  I  should  enjoy  that  part  of  the  performance  as  much 
as  anything.  You  saw  how  I  played  the  Virgin  Martyr 
in  Court.' 

'Yet  this  is  real  enough,  God  knows/  I  said,  looking 
round  the  place. 

'  I  dare  say  it  looks  so  to  you.  To  me,  it  is  part  of  the 
Play.  Will,  the  Play  is  nearly  over.  I  knew  all  along  that 
disaster  was  coming  upon  me.  But  the  worst  is  over  — 
the  wrorst  is  over.  I  know  that  the  worst  is  over.  I  can  now 
foretell  what  is  coming  next/  She  looked  straight  before 
her,  hsr  eyes  luminous  in  the  dark  cell.  '  I  can  see,'  she 
said,  '  a  time  of  peace  and  calm.  Well,  Will,  reality  or  not, 
that  scene  will  be  pleasant.  I  shall  go  out  of  this  place 
very  soon  —  But  I  know  not  when,  and  I  cannot  see  myself 
at  any  time  again  upon  the  boards  of  Drury.  I  am  certain 
that  I  shall  never  go  back  there.  I  cannot  see  myself  in 
Soho  Square  either.  I  shall  never  go  back  there.  I  see 
fields  and  hills  and  woods ' —  she  shuddered  and  with  a 
gesture  pushed  the  vision  from  her.  '  Will  —  it  is  strange, 
all  is  strange :  it  is  a  beautiful  country,  but  I  know  it  not  — 
I  cannot  understand  it/ 

It  was  not  the  first  time,  as .  you  have  seen,  that  she 
showed  this  strange  power  of  peering  into  the  future. 
Whether  this  fair-haired  and  blue-eyed  woman  was  really 
a  child  of  the  gipsies,  or,  as  Lord  Brockenhurst  conjectured, 
a  stolen  child,  she  had  the  powers  that  we  commonly  find 
in  gipsy  women  who  are  fortune-tellers  all  the  world  over. 
That  she  compelled  all  men  to  become  her  servants  you 


Out  of  the  Frying  Pan  Into  the  Fire    299 

have  seen :  that  she  could  also  compel  women  to  follow  and 
obey  her  was  proved  by  what  she  did  during  that  three  or 
four  weeks  which  she  spent  in  the  condemned  cell:  the 
same  magic  arts  —  yet  she  was  no  witch:  and  she  could 
read  the  future  —  a  gift  which  is  marvellous  in  our  eyes. 

Her  power  over  others,  even  the  most  savage  people,  was 
shown  by  the  changed  behaviour  of  the  poor  girl  waiting 
for  execution.  I  have  mentioned  her:  she  was  at  first  a 
wild  creature:  she  fled  to  the  darkest  corner  of  the  cell  and 
there  crouched  with  eyes  of  suspicion  and  terror:  she 
snatched  her  food  and  ran  into  her  corner  to  eat  it:  she 
was  altogether  unwashed  and  altogether  in  rags:  she  was 
bare-footed,  bare-legged  and  bare-armed:  her  hair  which 
should  have  been  light  —  like  Jenny's  own  hair,  was  matted 
with  dirt:  it  looked  as  if  it  had  never  known  a  comb:  yet 
long  and  beautiful  hair:  her  eyes  were  blue,  large  and 
limpid.  She  had  never  known  kindness,  or  love,  or  care 
since  the  day  when  her  mother  was  marched  away  to  New- 
gate wearing  handcuffs.  She  was,  I  say,  a  mere  savage. 
The  child  might  have  been  sixteen,  but  she  looked  thirteen. 
Still,  sixteen  is  young  for  Tyburn.  Jenny  found  this  child 
in  her  cell:  condemned  like  herself;  and  she  tamed  her. 
Not  in  a  single  day,  but  in  a  few  days.  She  tamed  her 
with  kindness;  with  soft  words  in  the  language  which  the 
child  understood  best:  with  soft  touches:  with  gifts  of  pretty 
things:  I  suppose  she  gave  her  sweetmeats  —  I  know  not 
what  she  did,  but  in  a  few  days  I  found  the  savage  wild 
creature  converted  into  a  shy,  timid  girl  —  clinging  to  Jenny 
and  following  her  about  like  a  favourite  spaniel.  She  was 
washed  and  combed  and  dressed  from  head  to  foot:  she 
wore  stockings  and  shoes:  her  hair,  just  confined  by  a  rib- 
bon, hung  over  her  shoulders  in  lovely  tresses:  she  had 
become  an  interesting  child  who  promised  to  grow  into  a 
lovely  maiden.  And  yet  she  was  to  be  carried  out  to 
Tyburn  and  there  hanged. 

Then,  when  the  girl  had  assumed  a  civilized  look,  Jenny 
began  to  lament  her  approaching  fate  of  which  the  poor 
creature  seemed  herself  unconscious.  Indeed,  I  think  the 
child  understood  nothing  at  her  trial  or  her  sentence  except 
that  she  was  horribly  frightened  and  was  carried  out  of 
court  crying. 

'  Is  it  not  terrible/  she  asked, '  that  we  must  hang  children 
• — ignorant  children?' 


ooo  The  Orange  Girl 

'  It  is  the  law  of  the  land,  Jenny.  Judges  have  only  to 
administer  the  law  of  the  land/ 

'  Then  it  is  a  cruel  law,  and  the  Judges  ought  to  say  so. 
A  man  is  a  murderer  who  condemns  a  child  to  death,  even 
if  it  is  the  law,  without  declaring  against  it/ 

'  Nay,  Jenny ' —  this  she  could  not  understand  for  the 
reasons  I  have  already  given  — '  we  must  remember  that  the 
children  suffer  for  the  sins  of  the  fathers,  unto  the  third  and 
fourth  generation.' 

She  stared.  'Why,'  she  said,  'the  poor  child  has  been 
taught  no  better/  And,  indeed,  there  seems  no  answer  to 
this  plea.  If  in  the  mysteries  of  Providence  we  must  so 
suffer,  the  Law  of  men  should  not  punish  ignorance.  'To 
hang  children ! '  she  insisted.  '  To  destroy  their  lives  before 
they  have  well  begun!  And  for  what?  For  taking  some- 
thing not  their  own  —  Oh!  Will,  it  is  monstrous.  Just  for 
a  bit  of  cloth  —  only  a  bit  of  cloth  off  a  counter.  Oh !  the 
poor  child!  the  poor  child! ' 

Then,  just  as  she  had  spared  no  trouble  to  get  me  out 
of  my  danger  so  she  now  began  to  work  for  the  rescue  of 
this  child.  She  spoke  to  the  Governor  about  it.  He  looked 
astonished:  children  of  fifteen,  or  so,  were  frequently  exe- 
cuted for  one  offence  or  the  other:  the  Law  was  doubtless 
severe:  but  criminals  of  all  kinds  were  multiplying:  after  all, 
they  were  out  of  the  way  when  they  were  hanged :  this  girl, 
for  instance,  would  only  grow  up  like  the  rest,  a  plague  and 
a  curse  to  the  community.  Still  he  gave  Jenny  advice,  and 
by  her  instruction  I  drew  up  a  Petition  from  the  child  herself 
addressed  to  no  less  a  person  than  her  Gracious  Majesty 
the  young  Queen,  who  was  said  to  have  a  kindly  heart. 
The  petition,  with  certain  changes,  might  almost  have  been 
that  of  Jenny  herself  for  her  own  case.  Here  is  a  piece 
of  it. 

'  Your  Petitioner  humbly  submits  that  she  was  born  and 
brought  up  in  a  part  of  London  occupied  entirely  by  thieves, 
rogues,  and  vagabonds:  that  she  was  taught  from  infancy 
that  the  only  way  by  which  she  could  earn  her  daily  bread 
was  by  stealing:  that  the  only  art  or  trade  she  had  ever 
learned  was  that  of  stealing  without  being  detected:  that 
she  was  never  at  any  school  or  Church  or  under  any  kind 
of  instruction  whatever:  that  she  was  never  taught  the 
meaning  of  right  or  wrong:  that  she  had  learned  no  religion 
and  no  morals  and  knew  not  what  they  meant;  and  that 


Out  of  the  Frying  Pan  Into  the  Fire    301 

being  caught  in  the  act  of  stealing  a  piece  of  cloth  value  six 
shillings  from  a  shop,  she  is  now  lying  under  sentence  of 
death.' 

To  make  a  long  story  short,  Jenny  entrusted  this  Peti- 
tion to  Lord  Brockenhurst,  who  generously  interested  him- 
self in  the  girl  and  undertook  that  the  Petition  should  reach 
the  hands  of  Her  Majesty  the  Queen  —  with  the  result, 
as  you  shall  presently  hear,  that  the  girl's  life  was  spared. 

This  incident  has  nothing  to  do  with  the  story,  save  that 
it  shows  Jenny's  generous  nature  and  her  good  heart;  thus 
in  the  midst  of  her  own  anxieties  to  think  of  the  troubles 
of  others.  Nay,  she  not  only  saved  the  life  of  this  girl,  but 
she  brought  her  to  a  new  mind  and  to  new  thoughts:  and, 
whereas  she  had  been  before  what  you  have  seen,  she  con- 
verted the  child  into  a  decent,  well  conducted  civil  girl, 
worthy  of  better  things  —  even  to  marry  an  honest  man  and 
to  become  the  mother  of  stout  lads  and  sturdy  wenches. 
Let  us  consider  how  many  lives  might  have  been  destroyed 
had  they  hanged  this  young  girl.  I  have  sometimes  calcu- 
lated that  if  they  hang  a  hundred  women  every  year,  most 
of  them  young,  they  deprive  the  country  of  five  hundred 
children  whose  loss  may  mean  the  loss  of  two  thousand 
five  hundred  grandchildren,  and  so  on.  Can  any  country 
afford  to  lose  so  many  valuable  soldiers  and  sailors  every 
year,  the  number  still  mounting  up?  Why,  then,  cannot 
we  take  the  children  when  they  are  still  young  out  of 
Roguery  and  place  them  in  some  house  where  they  will  be 
taught  religion  and  morals  and  a  craft?  At  present  the 
cry  is  all  'Hang!  Hang!  Hang!'  or  'Flog!  Flog!  Flog!' 
So  the  soldiers  and  the  sailors  and  the  wretched  women  are 
tied  up  and  flogged  well  nigh  to  death:  and  the  carts  go 
rumbling  along  Holborn  loaded  with  the  poor  creatures 
on  their  way  to  be  hanged:  but  the  rogues  increase  and 
multiply.  Since  hanging  and  flogging  do  no  good  cannot 
we  try  Jenny's  method  of  kindness?  I  say  this  writing 
many  years  afterwards  —  because  at  that  time  I  did  not 
understand  the  law  of  kindness  which  I  now  perceive  to  be 
the  Heavenly  Law  of  Charity.  Jenny,  who  had  no  glim- 
mer of  religion,  poor  thing,  in  her  quick  way  divined  the 
Law  of  Charity. 

Why,  she  changed  even  the  women  in  the  Prison  Yard. 
There  was  great  suffering  among  them.  Many  of  them 
had  no  friends  to  bring  them  food:  they  had  nothing  but 


jo 2  The  Orange  Girl 

the  daily  dole  of  the  penny  loaf.  Presently,  I  observed  that 
they  looked  more  contented  and  better  fed:  they  were  less 
noisy:  there  was  less  quarrelling  and  fighting:  they  were 
even  cleaner  to  look  at.  All  this  was  Jenny's  doing.  She 
fed  them  first:  then  when  their  craving  for  food,  which 
made  them  quarrelsome,  was  allayed,  she  went  among  them 
and  talked  to  them  one  at  a  time.  I  have  seen  her,  I  have 
seen  how  the  rough  coarse  common  creatures  would 
respond,  little  by  little,  to  words  of  kindness.  She  advised 
them  about  their  affairs:  she  made  them  confess  what  they 
had  done:  why,  was  she  not  one  of  themselves? 

'  I  knew  you/  she  said  to  one,  '  long  ago  in  Hog's  Lane: 
you  lived  in  the  Old  Bell  Alley:  we  were  girls  together. 
Come  into  my  cell  and  I  will  find  you  something  more  to 
put  on;  and  your  hair  wants  to  be  combed  and  put  up, 
doesn't  it?  And  your  face  would  look  so  much  better  if  it 

were  washed.  Come  with  me '  and  so  on  with  one  after 

the  other:  not  the  least  case  being  the  girl  who  had  laid 
information  and  committed  perjury  against  her.  It  was 
what  Jenny  said  —  though  the  saying  was  then  too  hard 
for  me.  They  are  women:  as  are  all  men  and  women, 
whether  we  call  some  Yahoos  or  not:  they  are  women:  there 
is  not  such  very  great  difference  between  the  greatest  lady 
and  the  lowest  woman:  both  are  women:  both  are  ruled  by 
the  same  irresistible  forces  of  love.  Some  day,  perhaps, 
some  gentlewoman  will  put  the  part  of  the  Christian  relig- 
ion — I  mean  the  Law  of  Charity  —  into  practice.  It  is 
strange  that  a  woman  who  was  not  a  Christian,  and  had  no 
religion,  should  first  teach  me  that  Charity  means  more 
than  the  giving  of  alms. 

'  Let  me/  said  Jenny,  '  do  something  for  these  poor 
creatures  while  I  am  among  them.  That  will  not  be  for 
long.  Then  they  will  fall  back  again  into  their  own  ways/ 

'  But,  Jenny,  you  are  spending  all  your  money.' 

'  An  actress  never  wants  money.  When  I  get  out  of  this 
place  I  have  made  up  my  mind  what  to  do.  I  will  not 
return  to  Drury  Lane:  I  will  go  over  to  Dublin.  That  is 
the  strange  country  with  hills  and  woods  which  I  see  before 
me  always.  It  is  Ireland.  I  will  go  on  the  Dublin  stage. 
As  for  the  money,  I  brought  with  me  all  there  was  in  the 
house  when  I  left  it:  and  all  my  jewels  —  but  they  are  not 
worth  much.  These  women  have  had  some  of  the  money, 


Out  of  the  Frying  Pan  Into  the  Fire    303 

and  the  turnkeys  have  had  some,  and  Mr.  Dewberry  has 
had  some:  and  I  think  there  is  not  much  left/ 

The  question  of  money  pressed  hard  because  I  had  none, 
and  as  yet  no  new  situation,  and  when  Jenny  was  released 
she  would  certainly  want  money  to  carry  her  on. 

She  laughed,  seeing  my  seriousness.  'Oh!  Will  —  Will/ 
she  said.  'You  are  a  musician  and  yet  you  are  anxious 
about  money.  But  you  were  born  in  the  City.  Now  in  a 
theatre  nobody  thinks  about  money.  When  the  money  is 
plenty  it  is  freely  lent:  when  there  is  none  it  is  freely  bor- 
rowed. Believe  me,  Will,  I  shall  want  no  money:  I  never 
have  wanted  money.  Did  I  ever  tell  you,  Will,  my  own  for- 
tune? An  old  gipsy  woman  told  me.  "  What  others  envy  she 
shall  have:  what  she  would  have  she  shall  lack.  She  shall 
pass  through  dangers  without  harm:  she  shall  be  happy  in 
the  end.  Yet  not  in  the  way  she  would  most  desire."  That  is 
a  strange  fortune,  is  it  not?  Now  I  am  in  the  midst  of 
dangers,  yet  nothing  will  do  me  harm.  What  do  I  most 
desire?  What  do  all  women  most  desire?  You  were  born 
in  the  City,  Will,  where  they  do  not  study  the  human  heart. 
Therefore  you  know  not.  The  old  woman  was  a  witch, 
as  they  all  are  —  all  the  gipsy  women  —  so  far  I  have  had 
what  others  envy  —  and  —  alas!  Will,  I  still  lack  what  most 
I  desire/ 

'  What  is  it,  Jenny?  ' 

'  Ask  your  violin,  Will.  Ask  your  music.  Ask  the  play 
upon  the  stage  what  women  most  desire.  Oh!  Foolish 
youth !  they  ask  what  you  have  given  to  Alice  —  they  ask 
the  happiness  of  love/ 

If  the  time  was  long  to  those  who  watched  and  waited, 
it  was  worse  for  her  who  suffered.  I  believe  if  I  remember 
aright  that  our  poor  Jenny  spent  five  or  perhaps  six  weeks 
in  that  noisome  cell;  her  cheek,  as  I  have  said,  grew  thin 
and  pale  from  the  bad  air  and  the  confinement;  but  her 
courage  she  never  lost  for  a  single  day.  She  asked  for  no 
consolations  and  desired  no  soothing  to  alleviate  the  weari- 
ness of  her  prison.  Of  those  fine  ladies  who  called  before 
she  was  tried  not  one  came  now:  nor  did  any  of  the 
actresses,  her  old  friends  and  rivals,  visit  her.  They  came 
before  the  trial,  just  as  they  visit  a  notorious  robber,  because 
it  is  interesting  to  gape  upon  a  person  who  stands  in  the 
great  danger  of  a  trial  for  his  life,  or  has  done  some  daring 
act  of  villainy,  or  is  about  to  undergo  some  terrible  ordeal. 


304  The  Orange  Girl 

When  her  trial  was  over  and  it  became  certain  in  every- 
body's mind  that,  although  the  woman  had  pleaded  guilty: 
although  she  was  condemned:  she  would  not  suffer  the 
capital  sentence,  the  interest  of  the  public  in  the  case  rap- 
idly declined  and  in  a  few  days  ceased  wholly:  the  great 
ladies  ran  after  other  excitements:  they  sent  letters  to  the 
new  singer:  they  sent  rings  to  their  favourite  actor:  they 
crowded  the  prison  of  the  fashionable  highwaymen:  the 
actresses,  for  their  part,  reflected  that  they  would  probably 
have  Jenny  back  among  them  before  long  casting  them  all 
in  the  shade:  so  they  left  off  calling:  the  portrait  painters 
went  elsewhere  after  studies  likely  to  be  popular.  Truly 
it  was  a  lamentable  instance  of  the  breath  of  popular  favour 
fickle  and  uncertain.  '  The  Case  of  Clarinda '  was  forgotten 
as  soon  an  people  had  made  up  their  minds  that  Clarinda 
was  not  to  be  hanged,  although  she  had  screened  her 
mother  and  pleaded  guilty  and  received  sentence  of  death. 
The  only  persons  who  now  came  to  the  cell  were  Lord 
Brockenhurst  and  Mr.  Dewberry  the  attorney,  not  to  speak 
of  the  Governor  of  the  Prison,  who  came  daily  to  ask  after 
his  fair  prisoner's  health.  His  Lordship  let  us  know  day 
by  day  concerning  the  efforts  being  made  on  Jenny's 
behalf.  The  reason  why  they  were  so  slow  was  partly  due 
to  a  feeling  on  the  part  of  the  Judge  that  though  the 
motive  of  the  prisoner  might  be  good  she  had  confessed  to 
a  heinous  crime,  and  the  Law  must  not  be  made  ridiculous. 
Therefore,  a  few  weeks  of  prison  should  be  allowed,  what- 
ever was  done  afterwards,  in  vindication  of  the  Majesty  of 
the  Law.  '  But,'  said  Lord  Brockenhurst,  '  he  is  at  least 
on  your  side.  So  much  I  know  for  a  fact.  It  is  a  great 
thing  to  have  the  Judge  on  your  side.'  He  also  told  us 
that  the  Counsel  for  the  Prosecution,  a  gentleman  of  great 
eminence  in  the  Law,  was  also  very  active  on  our  behalf: 
that  the  Jurymen  had  drawn  up  a  petition  and  signed  it 
unanimously  for  Jenny's  pardon  and  release:  that  the  Queen 
was  also  reported  to  be  interested  in  the  case  and  in  favour 
of  clemency,  the  whole  circumstances  being  so  unusual  and 
the  behaviour  of  the  prisoner  so  strangely  actuated  by  filial 
affection  even  towards  an  unworthy  object:  and  that  the 
general  opinion  of  the  people  was  that  it  was  impossible  to 
suppose  that  a  woman  in  Jenny's  position,  commanding 
receipts  of  thousands  every  night  of  a  masquerade,  could 
condescend  to  so  low  and  miserable  a  business  as  receiving 


Out  of  the  Frying  Pan  Into  the  Fire    305 

a  bundle  of  stolen  goods,  not  worth  a  couple  of  guineas 
altogether,  with  the  assistance  of  wretched  confederates 
whose  evidence  might  hang  her:  and  further  that  the  minds 
of  the  people  being  made  up  they  thought  no  more  about 
the  matter.  In  a  word,  that  all  was  going  well,  but  we 
must  wait:  he  could  not  tell  us  how  long,  and  possess  our 
souls  in  patience. 

'  If  only  we  do  not  die  of  gaol  fever/  Jenny  sighed. 
'Faugh!  To  die  in  the  reek  and  the  stench  of  this  place. 
My  Lord,  I  arn  always  your  most  obliged  servant.  Per- 
haps the  Judge  would  consider  his  opinion  and  give  me  at 
least  the  choice  of  death.  Let  me  die  like  my  own  people. 
They  lie  down  in  a  little  tent  which  keeps  off  the  cold  rain 
and  the  hot  sun:  on  their  backs  they  lie  looking  through 
the  open  front  at  the  sky  and  the  clouds  and  presently  they 
shut  their  eyes  and  their  limbs  grow  cold.  Then  they 
are  buried  in  the  hedge  without  coffin  or  winding-sheet.' 

'  And  without  prayers/  said  his  Lordship.  '  Dear  Mad- 
ame, they  are  not  your  people.  There  was  never  yet  gipsy 
with  fair  hair  and  blue  eyes.  You  shall  not  die  in  a  tent, 
but  in  a  bed  with  those  who  love  you  weeping  over  you. 
And  you  shall  be  borne  to  a  marble  tomb  in  the  Church 
with  the  singing  men  and  the  boys  chanting  the  service 
for  the  good  of  your  soul/ 

The  doctrine  was  unsound,  but  the  meaning  of  his  Lord- 
ship was  good. 

'  The  good  of  my  soul/  Jenny  repeated,  doubtfully. 
'  Well,  my  Lord,  I  have  at  least  learned  something  from 
the  people  who  stole  me  —  if  they  did  steal  me.  I  love  the 
light  and  the  sunshine  and  the  wind.  Restore  me  to  these 
and  I  will  promise  never,  never,  never  to  have  another 
mother  who  will  tempt  me  with  second-hand  petticoats/ 

She  laughed,  but  Lord  Brockenhurst,  who  was  a  grave 
gentleman,  did  not  laugh. 

'  Madame/  he  said,  kissing  her  fingers  —  of  which  he 
never  seemed  to  weary  — '  I  should  desire  nothing  better 
than  to  lead  you  into  meadows  and  beside  gentle  streams 
where  the  Zephyrs  would  bring  back  their  rosy  hue  to  your 
pale  cheek.  We  must  not  speak  of  death  but  of  life/ 

'  But  not  of  love,  my  Lord/  she  interrupted.  '  Remem- 
ber I  have  a  husband.  He  is  in  the  King's  Bench  Prison, 
a  bankrupt,  there  to  remain  for  life,  because  he  can  never 
hope  to  pay  his  debts.  But  he  is  my  husband/ 


306  The  Orange  Girl 

'  Of  everything  but  love,  Madame,'  he  replied  with  the 
dignity  which  sat  upon  him  as  naturally  as  grace  sat  upon 
Jenny.  '  Seriously,  I  have  a  house  some  fifty  miles  from 
here.  It  stands  among  deep  woods,  beside  a  flowing 
stream:  behind  it  is  a  hill,  not  terrible  with  crags  but  of  a 
gentle  ascent:  it  has  gardens  and  orchards:  around  is  a 
park  with  flocks  of  the  timid  deer:  not  far  off  you  may 
discover  the  tower  of  a  village  Church  and  hear  the  music 
of  the  bells.  Thither,  thither,  Madame,  I  will  lead  you 
when  you  are  free  from  the  misery  of  this  place,  and  there 
you  shall  stay  till  your  spirits  are  restored  and  your  mind 
recreated:  nay,  you  shall  stay  there,  if  you  will  so  honour 
me,  all  your  life.  The  house  and  all  that  belongs  to  it  shall 
be  your  own.  I  will  be  content  if  once  in  a  while  I  may 
spend  a  day  or  two  with  you,  as  your  honoured  guest.' 

'  Oh !  my  Lord,'  Jenny  made  reply,  through  her  tears, 
'you  are  too  good  to  me.  Indeed  I  deserve  none  of  this 
kindness.' 

'  You  deserve  all  —  all  —  divine  Jenny  —  that  a  man  can 
offer.  Believe  me  there  is  nothing  that  is  too  good  or  too 
great  for  such  as  Jenny  Wilmot/ 

This  dialogue  was  only  one  of  many.  Truly,  as  Jenny 
said,  here  was  a  faithful  and  a  loyal  friend. 

One  more  friend  was  found,  as  faithful  and  as  loyal,  but 
more  humble.  You  remember  the  country  lad  called  Jack, 
who  had  fallen  into  Merridew's  clutches  and  had  already 
entered  under  his  guidance  upon  the  career  of  a  rogue. 
He  it  was  who  gave  evidence  which  helped  to  connect  all 
four  plotters  with  the  plot.  He  it  was,  also,  who  carried 
off  the  old  woman  and  Doll  by  the  waggon  to  Horsham  in 
Sussex.  We  thought  no  more  about  him.  He  had  done 
his  service  and  had  received  his  pay  and  had  gone  his  own 
way.  The  lad  had  an  honest  look  —  a  wholesome  country- 
bred  face,  different  from  the  pale  cheeks  of  the  boys  and 
the  swollen  faces  of  the  men  with  whom  he  had  begun  to 
sit.  In  a  word,  he  was  not  yet  branded  with  the  mark  of 
Cain.  But,  I  say,  we  had  forgotten  him.  He  was  one  of 
the  characters  in  the  last  scene  but  one  of  the  play  which 
we  were  performing  with  Miss  Jenny  Wilmot  of  Drury 
Lane  Theatre  as  the  heroine. 

Now,  one  morning,  while  I  was  playing  something  to 
please  our  prisoner  in  her  cell  the  turnkey  brought  us  a 
visitor.  It  was  none  other  than  the  country  lad.  He  stood 


Out  of  the  Frying  Pan  Into  the  Fire    307 

at  the  open  door  and  pulled  his  hair,  holding  his  hat  in 
one  hand. 

'  Your  servant  to  command,  Madame,'  he  said  timidly, 
pronouncing  his  words  in  the  broad  country  manner  which 
is  too  uncouth  to  be  presented  to  eyes  polite. 

'  Why,'  cried  Jenny,  'it  is  Jack!  How  fares  it,  honest 
Jack?'  and  so  took  him  by  the  hand  as  if  he  was  of  her 
station.  Jenny  had  no  sense  of  what  is  due  to  rank  and 
station.  '  Why,'  she  said,  when  I  spoke  to  her  about  it, 
*we  are  all  players  in  the  same  company:  and  we  all  like 
speaking  parts.' 

*  And  how  did  you  leave  Mother  and  Doll? '  she  went  on. 
'  Purely  well,  Madame.     They  got  out  of  the  waggon 
about  two  miles  from  Horsham  at  a  tavern  by  the  road- 
side.    It  was  shut  up.     Doll  saw  it.     "  Mother,"  she  said, 
"  it  would  do  for  us."     They  wanted  me  to  stay,  and  if 
they  could  get  the  House  I  should  be  tapster  and  drawer. 
But  I  thought  I  would  go  home.     So  I  left  them/ 
'  And  then  you  went  home.' 

'Ay — I  went  home.  But  they  didn't  want  me  there. 
And  the  parson  talked  about  the  whipping-post.  So  I  came 
away  again.  And  I  found  out  where  you  were,  Madame, 
and  I  came  to  offer  my  humble  services.' 

'  Thank  you  kindly,  Jack.  But  what  can  I  do  with  you 
here?' 

'  I  will  fetch  and  carry.  I  want  no  wages  but  just  to 
live.  Let  me  stay  with  your  Ladyship.' 

He  looked  so  earnest  and  so  honest  that  Jenny  turned 
to  me.  '  He  might  be  useful.  I  believe  he  is  honest. 
What  say  you,  Will?' 

What  could  I  say?  Should  I  turn  away  a  friend  when 
we  might  want  all  the  friends  we  could  find?  How  we 
were  to  keep  our  new  servant  was  more  than  I  knew: 
however,  there  he  was,  upon  our  hands.  It  was  a  kindly  act 
of  Jenny,  when  her  fortunes  were  at  their  worst  to  take 
over  this  poor  lad  who  was  thrown  upon  the  world  without 
a  trade  —  save  that  of  rustic  labourer,  which  is  useless  in 
London :  without  a  character :  and  without  friends.  Jenny's 
consent  saved  him  —  he  could  remain  honest. 

'Vex  not  your  soul  about  money,  Will.  We  shall  want 
none.  There  is  always  money  when  it  is  really  wanted. 
See  how  cheaply  I  live:  I  cannot  wear  out  my  fine  clothes 
—  indeed,  the  mob  has  left  me  mighty  few  to  wear :  I  have 


308  The  Orange  Girl 

no  rent  to  pay  nor  any  servants.  It  is  true  that  my  money 
is  nearly  gone,  but  there  are  still  things  —  well  —  things  of 
which  you  know  nothing:  and  the  Judge  who  thinks  so 
much  about  the  Majesty  of  the  Law  —  will  surely  relent 
before  long.  If  he  would  come  to  see  me  I  think  I  could 
soften  his  heart/ 

'  Indeed  you  would,  Jenny,  if  it  was  of  the  hardness  of 
the  nether  millstone/ 


CHAPTER  XXIII 

AN  UNEXPECTED   EVENT 

AT  this  juncture  the  question  of  money  became  pressing. 
For  three  months  I  had  been  out  of  a  place.  Jenny's 
money,  of  which  she  was  so  prodigal,  was  coming  to  an 
end;  and  although  she  hinted  at  other  resources  it  became 
obvious  to  me  that  the  attempt  must  be  made  to  find 
employment.  I  looked  forward  to  another  round  of  walk- 
ing about  the  town  day  after  day  in  fruitless  search.  At 
this  juncture,  however,  an  event  happened  wholly  unex- 
pected, which  changed  the  position  altogether  both  for 
myself  and,  as  it  proved,  for  Jenny. 

You  have  heard  how  I  visited  my  cousin  in  the  Prison; 
how  I  found  him  ragged  and  half  starved;  and  how  I  gave 
him  five  guineas  from  his  wife,  which  he  instantly  gambled 
away.  Jenny  sent  him  no  more  money;  nor  did  she  speak 
of  him  again;  nor  did  I  again  visit  him;  nor  did  I  think 
upon  him.  To  think  of  one  who  had  been  my  life-long 
enemy  served  no  purpose  but  to  make  me  angry:  even 
now,  after  thirty  years,  when  I  have  long  since  forgiven 
this  poor  deluded  wretch,  ever  running  after  a  Will-o'-the- 
wisp,  I  cannot  think  of  what  he  did  for  me  —  how  he  made 
it  impossible  for  my  father  to  be  reconciled  —  without  a 
momentary  wrath  boiling  up  in  my  heart.  Still,  I  say,  at 
thinking  of  my  Cousin  Matthew  the  pulse  beats  quicker; 
the  blood  rises  to  my  cheeks;  it  is  like, a  wound  whose  scar 
never  vanishes,  though  it  may  be  hidden  away:  I  would 
not  injure  Matthew  if  he  were  still  living  in  the  world,  but 
I  cannot  forget.  The  old  rule  taught  to  children  was  that 


Out  of  the  Frying  Pan  Into  the  Fire    309 

we  must  forget  and  forgive;  two  boys  fight  and  are  recon- 
ciled: the  master  flogs  the  boy,  who  is  then  forgiven  and 
his  offence  at  once  forgotten:  we  all  forget  and  forgive 
daily:  yet  some  things  may  not  be  forgotten:  the  long  years 
of  continued  persecution,  animosity,  misrepresentation  and 
conspiracy  against  dear  life  I  cannot  forget,  though  I  have 
long  since  forgiven. 

One  evening  Mr.  Ramage  came  to  see  me.  '  Mr.  Will,' 
he  said,  '  I  have  called  to  tell  you  what  you  ought  to  know. 
The  Alderman,  Sir,  has  I  fear,  lost  his  wits :  his  misfortunes 
have  made  him  distracted:  he  now  dreams  that  he  is  living 
in  a  palace,  and  that  his  riches  have  no  limit.  He  buys  land ; 
he  gives  his  daughters  diamonds;  he  founds  alms- 
houses  ' 

'  If  he  believes  all  that,  he  is  surely  happy,'  I  said.  ; 

This  faithful  servant  shook  his  head.  '  There  is  a  look 
in  his  eyes  which  belies  his  words,'  he  said,  '  I  would  rather 
see  him  wretched  in  his  senses  than  happy  without  them/ 

'  How  does  he  live?  ' 

'He  has  a  room  on  the  Master's  side;  some  of  his  old 
friends  of  the  City  send  him  a  guinea  every  week:  his 
daughters  pass  the  day  with  him.  He  wants  for  nothing. 
But,  Mr.  Will  —  the  change!  the  change!'  and  so  his  eyes 
filled  with  tears.  'And  he  who  would  have  been  Lord 
Mayor  —  Lord  Mayor  —  next  year! ' 

'  How  do  my  cousins  treat  you?' 

'  If  I  was  a  dog  and  toothless  they  could  not  treat  me 
worse,  because  I  gave  that  evidence.' 

The  unfortunate  Alderman!  This  was,  indeed,  a  wretched 
ending  to  an  honourable  career.  I  suppose  that  he  knew 
nothing  and  suspected  nothing  of  what  was  threatening' 
and  that  the  news  of  his  wrecked  fortunes  fell  upon  him 
like  a  thunderbolt.  That  some  of  his  friends  sent  him  a 
guinea  a  week  showed  that  he  was  pitied  rather  than  blamed 
for  this  wreck  and  ruin  of  a  noble  House.  Poor  old  mer- 
chant! And  this  after  his  Alderman's  pride  and  glory: 
after  being  Warden  of  his  Company:  after  a  long  partner- 
ship in  one  of  the  oldest  Houses  in  the  City!  Fortune, 
which  used  to  put  Kings  down  and  put  Kings  up,  just  by 
a  turn  of  her  wheel,  now  makes  rich  merchants  bankrupt 
and  consigns  Aldermen  to  Debtors'  Prisons  in  order  to 
bring  home  to  all  of  us  —  even  the  humble  musician  —  the 
uncertainty  of  human  wealth.  His  wits  gone  a- wandering! 


310  The  Orange  Girl 

A  happiness  for  him:  a  thing  to  be  expected,  when,  at  his 
age,  there  had  fallen  upon  him  the  thing  which  City  mer- 
chants dread  worse  than  death. 

'  How  can  we  help  him? '  I  asked. 

'  Nay:  there  is  no  help,  but  pity  and  to  bear  the  scorn  of 
the  young  ladies  as  best  one  may.' 

'  Do  they  know  that  Matthew  is  in  the  prison  with  him? ' 

'  No,  Sir.  They  do  not  know.  They  do  not  inquire 
after  Mr.  Matthew.  But  it  was  of  him,  Sir,  that  I  came  to 
speak/ 

It  then  appeared  that  since  in  every  depth  of  misery 
there  is  a  lower  depth,  so  the  unfortunate  man  had  sunk 
still  lower  since  I  last  saw  him.  He  was  absolutely  destitute, 
ragged,  starving,  even  barefooted. 

*  Will,'  said  Alice,  '  we  must  take  him  to-morrow  what 
we  can  spare.  After  all  he  is  your  cousin.  You  must 
forgive  him/ 

'  I  would  not  harm  him,  certainly/ 

Alas!  Silver  and  gold  had  we  little:  out  of  our  slender 
store  we  might  spare  two  or  three  shillings  and  some  pro- 
visions. Half  a  loaf;  a  piece  of  cheese;  a  piece  of  gammon; 
a  bottle  of  beer;  these  things  I  carried  over  to  the  Fleet 
Prison  in  the  morning.  I  also  carried  over  a  warm  coat 
which  I  could  ill  spare;  a  pair  of  shoes  and  stockings;  a 
warm  wrapper  for  the  neck;  and  a  thick  blanket. 

I  had  no  difficulty  in  finding  Matthew.  He  sat  in  a 
bare  and  wretched  room  where,  on  this  cold  day  of  January, 
with  a  sharp  frost  outside,  there  was  no  fire  in  the  grate, 
no  curtains  to  the  rattling  windows,  no  carpet,  no  beds, 
nothing  but  the  hard  planks  to  lie  upon  when  night  fell 
and  the  poor  debtors  could  huddle  together  for  such  warmth 
as  the  half-starved  human  body  could  afford.  There  was  a 
small  bench  —  I  suppose  it  found  its  way  there  by  accident. 
Matthew  sat  on  that,  his  feet  under  the  bench,  his  body 
bent,  his  hands  clasped.  I  called  him  by  name.  '  Matthew ! ' 

He  looked  up.  He  knew  me.  He  murmured  some- 
thing, I  know  not  what,  but  it  was  unfriendly.  To  the  last, 
he  remained  unfriendly. 

I  opened  my  bundle.  I  took  out  my  provisions  and  the 
bottle  of  beer.  He  ate  and  drank  enormously,  but  with- 
out a  word  of  thanks.  Then  I  took  out  the  stockings  and 
the  shoes  and  put  them  on:  tied  the  kerchief  round  his  neck; 
laid  the  thick  blanket  on  the  floor,  laid  him  on  it  and  rolle,d 


Out  of  the  Frying  Pan  Into  the  Fire    311 

it  round  him.  He  was  quite  unresisting;  he  was  without 
gratitude;  he  cursed,  but  mechanically,  and  as  if  he  could 
say  nothing  else.  Instead  of  getting  warmer,  his  teeth 
fchattered  and  he  shivered  still. 

I  spoke  to  him  again.  '  Is  there  anything  more  I  can  do 
for  you,  Matthew?' 

'  You  can  go  away,'  he  said,  articulate  at  last.  '  You  can 
go  away  and  leave  me.  The  sight  of  you  makes  me  mad/ 
I  have  since  thought  that  this  might  be  a  sign  of  repentance. 

'  I  will  go  away  directly.  Is  there  anything  more  I  can 
do  for  you? ' 

'  I  want/  he  said,  lifting  his  head  and  looking  round,  '  I 
want  to  have  my  turn.  The  last  time  I  lost.  If  you  will 
find  the  man  who  won  my  coat  and  will  send  him  here,  I 
shall  be  warm  directly,  and  I  can  have  another  turn.  I've 
lost  a  good  deal,  somehow.  The  luck's  been  against  me, 
always  against  me.' 

He  lay  back  and  shivered  again,  though  now  he  was 
wrapped  up  in  the  blanket  with  a  warm  coat  on  over  his 
old  rags.  He  should  have  been  quite  warm.  I  felt  his 
forehead;  it  was  hot  and  dry. 

(  Matthew,'  I  said,  *  I  think  you  are  in  some  kind  of  fever. 
Shall  I  bring  a  doctor  for  you? '  There  are  generally  about 
a  thousand  people  in  this  barrack,  men,  women,  and  chil- 
dren, yet  they  have  not  so  much  as  an  apothecary  in  the 
place.  Outside,  there  is  the  wise  woman  who  knows  the 
herbs  and  professes  to  cure  all  the  diseases  that  flesh  is  heir 
to  with  a  bundle  of  camomile,  feverfew,  or  vervain.  She 
commonly  lives  in  a  court.  In  Fleet  Street  there  is  the 
apothecary  who  has  a  shop  full  of  drugs.  He  despises  the 
wise  woman,  yet  is  not  so  much  wiser  than  she  is,  except 
in  his  own  conceit.  There  is  the  tooth-drawer;  and  there 
is  the  bone-setter;  but  for  physicians  there  are  none. 

His  face,  now  that  the  pains  of  cold  and  hunger  were 
appeased,  looked  gray,  and  what  the  old  women  call  drawn. 
It  is  a  bad  sign  had  I  known  it,  but  I  did  not.  I  thought 
he  was  suffering  from  cold  and  hunger  first,  and  from 
some  kind  of  fever  brought  on  by  privation. 

'You  think,'  he  murmured  —  his  voice  was  sunk  almost 
to  a  whisper  — '  to  bring  a  man  —  a  murderer  —  to  make  an 
end  —  that  is  your  revenge.  But  you  shall  not.  I  will 
send  to  the  Warden  for  protection.  Go  away.  Leave  me 


ji2  The  Orange  Girl 

alone.  I  can  do  you  no  more  harm.  I  will  have  no 
doctor  sent  by  you,  to  poison  me.' 

'  Do  you  know,  Matthew,  that  Probus  received  such  ter- 
rible injuries  in  pillory  that  he  will  remain  blind  for  the 
rest  of  his  life?' 

'Blind?'  he  sat  up  eagerly  repeating.  'Blind  for  the 
rest  of  his  life.  Ha!  Then  he  will  not  be  able  to  find  me. 
Will,  he  wanted  to  get  you  hung  —  so  as  to  be  out  of  the 
way.  He  was  going  to  try  next  to  get  me  hung.  Then 
all  the  money  would  be  his.  Blind,  is  he?  Then  he  can't 
find  me.  Will,  the  man  is  a  devil;  now  a  blind  devil;  a  devil 
in  the  dark.'  The  thought  seemed  to  revive  and  to  comfort 
him. 

'The  other  man,  Merridew,  was  killed  by  the  mob  in 
pillory.' 

'  Killed  —  killed  —  by  the  mob.  I  was  afraid  he  was 
going  to  give  me  up  for  the  reward.  Then  I  am  safe;  at 
last.  Both  of  them  out  of  the  way.  Now  I  shall  prosper 
again.' 

'Yes  —  you  are  quite  safe/ 

'  Will,'  he  held  out  his  hand.  '  Don't  bear  malice.  Don't 
give  information  against  me/ 

'  I  am  not  going  to  give  any  information  against  you.' 
But  I  could  not  take  his  hand,  for  which  I  was  afterwards 
sorry. 

'  The  information  ought  to  be  worth  fifty  pounds  at  least 
and  a  Tyburn  ticket  — a  Tyburn  ticket,'  he  went  on  repeat- 
ing the  words  over  one  after  the  other,  which  showed  the 
weakness  of  his  condition. 

It  is  useless  setting  down  all  the  nonsense  he  talked. 
After  a  while  I  left  him  and  looked  about  for  someone  who 
would  attend  to  him.  Presently  I  found  an  old  man  in  rags, 
almost  as  bad  as  Matthew's,  who  undertook  to  look  after 
him  and  give  him  some  food  from  time  to  time.  So  I  went 
away  and  repaired  to  my  daily  post  at  Newgate  again, 
saying  nothing  to  Jenny  about  this  illness. 

I  repeat  that  I  had  no  thought  of  anything  but  what 
they  call  a  feverish  cold,  which  would  be  checked  by  the 
warmth  and  the  food.  You  may  therefore  imagine  my 
surprise  when  I  went  to  visit  the  sick  man  in  the  morning 
to  learn  that  he  was  dead. 

'  He  talked  a  lot  of  nonsense,'  said  the  old  man,  his  nurse; 
'all  day  long  he  talked  nonsense  about  murdering  and; 


Out  of  the  Frying  Pan  Into  the  Fire    3 1 3 

hanging,  and  dividing  thousands.  Now  and  then  I  gave 
him  a  bit  and  a  sup  and  he  went  on  talking.  There  was  no 
candle  and  I  lay  down  beside  him  with  a  corner  of  his 
blanket  over  rne,  and  in  the  middle  of  the  night  I  woke  up 
and  found  that  he  had  left  off  talking  and  was  quite  still 
and  cold.  So  I  went  to  sleep  again.'  The  insensate  wretch 
had  actually  finished  his  sleep  beside  the  corpse. 

Matthew  was  dead. 

They  showed  me  his  body  lying  in  a  small  shed  against 
the  wall.  It  was  laid  in  a  shell  of  pinewood  roughly 
painted  black,  with  no  name  or  plate  upon  it.  It  was  to 
be  taken  across  to  the  churchyard  of  St.  George's  that  after- 
noon, to  be  laid  in  a  pauper's  grave  without  mourners  or 
friends,  and  with  a  service  hurriedly  gabbled  over  his  coffin. 
i  The  old  man  who  had  nursed  him  was  now  comfortably 
wrapped  in  the  blanket  and  clothed  in  the  coat  and  stock- 
ings which  Alice  had  sent  for  the  use  of  the  dead  man.  I 
hope  the  things  kept  him  warm. 

Matthew  was  dead.  At  first  I  did  not  understand  the 
1  difference  it  made  to  me.  I  asked  if  he  had  left  anything 
behind  him;  any  letters  or  papers  or  anything  at  all  that 
his  sisters  might  desire  to  have.  There  was  nothing;  abso- 
lutely nothing  was  left  of  him  at  all. 

Most  of  our  lives  are  like  the  stones  thrown  in  the  water; 
it  makes  circles  widening  and  growing  indistinct;  presently 
these  signs  vanish  altogether.  Then  the  stone  is  clean 
forgotten.  So  the  man  and  his  life  are  clean  forgotten, 
never  to  be  brought  to  mind  again.  Matthew  left  no  circles 
even;  his  was  a  stone  that  fell  into  the  water  silently  and 
made  no  splash  and  left  no  mark  upon  the  surface  even 
for  a  minute.  He  lived  for  eight-and-twenty  years:  he 
ruined  an  old  and  noble  House  of  trade;  he  lost  all  the 
wealth  and  possessions  and  money  of  the  House;  he  lost 
all  the  money  he  could  borrow;  he  plotted  against  me  con- 
tinually in  order  to  get  some  of  the  money  which  might 
be  mine;  he  wilfully  and  deliberately  deceived  the  woman 
who  married  him;  he  died  in  a  debtors'  prison  without  a 
single  friend  in  the  world  or  a  single  possession  to  bequeath 
to  a  single  friend,  if  he  had  one.  To  die  lying  on  the  floor 
—  it  would  have  been  on  the  bare  planks  but  for  Alice;  in 
the  dark  room  without  fire  or  light;  what  more  wretched 
end  could  one  desire  for  his  worst  enemy?  What  more 
.miserable  record  could  one  set  down  against  a  manj 


314  The  Orange  Girl 

single  friend  in  the  world  or  a  single  possession  to  bequeath 
to  a  single  friend,  if  he  had  one.  To  die  lying  on  the  floor 
—  it  would  have  been  on  the  bare  planks  but  for  Alice;  in 
the  dark  room  without  fire  or  light;  what  more  wretched 
end  could  one  desire  for  his  worst  enemy?  What  more 
miserable  record  could  one  set  down  against  a  man? 

I  could  do  nothing  more.  I  left  the  poor  shell  in  the 
shed  and  passed  over  to  the  other  side.  If  my  uncle  could 
understand  anything  I  had  to  communicate  the  sad  news 
to  him.  His  only  son  was  dead  —  What  a  son!  What  a 
life!  What  a  death! 

The  alderman  was  sitting  before  the  fire.  With  him  sat 
his  two  daughters.  The  guinea  a  week  which  was  meant 
for  him  alone  procured  food  for  the  two  girls  as  well.  They 
passed  the  whole  day,  I  believe,  sitting  thus  before  the  fire 
in  gloom  and  bitterness;  their  bitterness  was  mostly 
directed  against  myself  as  the  supposed  cause  of  all  their 
troubles. 

'  Cousin/  said  one  of  them  looking  up,  '  you  are  not 
wanted  here/ 

'  Perhaps  not.  I  have  come,  however,  to  bring  you  news. 
It  is  not  good  news,  I  am  sorry  to  say/ 

1  That  one  can  see  by  the  joy  expressed  in  your  face/ 
Yet  I  did  not  feel  joyful. 

'  Sir,'  I  addressed  my  uncle.     '  I  bring  you  bad  news/ 

He  looked  up  and  smiled  vacuously.  '  You  will  find  my 
brother,  sir,  on  Change,  I  believe/ 

'  Yes,  Sir.     I  would  speak  to  you  of  Matthew/ 

'He  is  in  the  counting-house,  or  perhaps  on  board  one 
of  the  ships.  Or  on  the  Quay/ 

I  turned  to  the  daughters.  '  I  see  that  he  understands 
nothing/ 

'  No.  He  eats  and  sleeps.  He  talks  nonsense.  It  is 
no  use  speaking  to  him.  You  have  seen  us  in  our  shame 
and  misery.  Give  us  your  news  and  go/ 

'  It  is  about  Matthew/ 

'  Matthew?    Where  is  he?    We  heard  he  had  escaped/ 

'You  do  not  know?  Matthew  has  been  in  this  prison 
for  some  weeks/ 

'Here?    In  this  prison?    And  we  have  not  see  him?' 

'He  has  been  on  the  Common  side;  on  the  Poor  side. 
'Perhaps  that  is  the  reason;  perhaps  he  did  not  know  that 


Out  of  the  Frying  Pan  Into  the  Fire    315 

They  looked  at  each  other.  Then  they  burst  into  tears. 
I  thought  they  were  natural  tears  such  as  a  sister  might 
shed  over  the  loss  of  her  brother.  But  they  were  not. 
'Oh!'  they  cried.  'Oh!  Oh!  Oh!  And  now  you  will 
have  the  whole  of  that  great  fortune.  And  we  thought  that 
you  would  die  and  that  Matthew  would  have  it.  What  a 
misfortune!  What  a  dreadful  thing!'  They  wept  and 
lamented,  capping  each  other  in  lamentations  all  to  the 
effect  that  the  fortune  had  fallen  to  the  undeserving  one. 
'And  after  all  his  plots  and  after  his  shameful  trial  before  all 
the  world!  And  after  his  highway  robbery!  And  after 
the  things  that  have  been  done  to  us!  and  now  that  people 
will  say  that  Matthew  died  a  Pauper  —  on  the  Common 
side!  On  the  Poor  side!  We  can  never  hold  up  our  heads 
again.' 

So  I  left  these  dear  creatures.  Never  could  I  understand 
why  they  attributed  any  one  of  their  misfortunes  to  me; 
nor  of  what  nature  were  the  plots  to  which  they  referred; 
nor  why  my  trial  was  shameful. 

However,  I  left  these  poor  ladies.  The  reduction  in  their 
circumstances;  their  precarious  condition;  their  having 
nothing  but  the  guinea  a  week  given  by  the  Alderman's  old 
friend;  the  uncertainty  of  his  life;  all  should  be  considered 
when  we  think  of  their  bitterness. 

For  my  own  part  it  was  not  until  my  cousins  reminded 
me  that  I  understood  the  great  difference  which  the  event 
made  to  me. 

I  was  the  survivor:  and  my  succession  came  to  me  in  less 
than  three  years  after  my  father's  death. 

I  was  the  survivor.  At  a  single  step  I  rose  from  the 
condition  of  a  simple  fiddler,  at  twenty-five  or  thirty  shil- 
lings a  week,  to  the  possession  of  a  fortune  of  over  a  hundred 
thousand  pounds. 

I  hastened  to  our  trusty  attorney,  Mr.  Dewberry.  I 
apprised  him  of  what  had  happened;  he  undertook  to  pre- 
sent my  claims  and  to  transfer  the  money  to  my  name, 
which  he  faithfully  effected,  and  without  difficulty. 

Then  I  went  on  to  Newgate. 

'What  is  the  matter,  Will?'  cried  Jenny,  'you  look 
strangely  agitated.' 

'Jenny' — I  took  her  hand  and  held  it — 'you  told  me 
the  other  day  that  you  were  in  no  anxiety  about  money/ 


316  The  Orange  Girl 

'  I  never  am,  Will.  For  people  of  parts  there  is  always 
plenty  of  money.' 

'  You  are  a  Prophetess,  Jenny.  You  will  never  want  for 
money  so  long  as  you  live.  For  all  that  I  have  is  yours, 
and  I  am  rich/ 

'You  are  rich?'  Over  her  face,  so  quick  to  change, 
there  passed  a  cloud.  'You  are  rich?  Then  —  Will  .  .  . 
then  ...  if  you  are  rich  —  I  must  be  —  a  widow.  Is 
Matthew  dead?' 

'  He  is  dead,  Jenny/ 

She  sank  into  a  chair.  She  shed  no  tears:  she  expressed 
no  sorrow. 

'  Matthew  is  dead.  I  wish  I  had  never  met  him  — 
Matthew  is  dead/ 

'  He  is  dead,  Jenny.     He  died  in  the  prison/ 

'And  I  am  a  widow.  I  am  free  again.  I  am  a  widow 
who  never  was  a  wife.  Will,  I  would  not  speak  ill  of  the 
dead  —  of  the  unburied:  but  .  .  .  alas!  I  can  find  no  good 
words  to  speak  of  him.  He  can  do  no  more  harm  —  either 
to  you  or  to  me/ 

'  Let  us  not  speak  of  him,  then/ 

'  No  —  we  must  forget  him.  As  for  this  money,  Will,  it 
is  yours  —  your  own  —  yours  and  Alice's  —  and  the  lovely 
boy's/ 

'  Jenny  —  all  that  we  have  is  yours :  all  that  we  have  and 
more  .  .  .  more  .  .  .  gratitude  and  love  and  devotion  — 
which  are  more  than  gold/ 


CHAPTER  XXIV 

COMMUTATION 

AT  THAT  very  moment,  while  we  were  trying  to  find  words 
befitting  the  occasion  which  would  not  admit  of  grief  yet 
demanded  the  respect  due  to  Death,  arrived  the  news  so 
long  expected. 

The  Governor  of  the  Prison,  accompanied  by  our  friend 
the  Counsel  for  the  Prosecution,  stood  at  the  door,  followed 
by  one  of  the  Turnkeys. 


Out  of  the  Frying  Pan  Into  the  Fire    3 1 7 

'  Madame/  said  the  Governor,  '  I  come  to  bring  you 
news.'  But  he  looked  so  serious  that  my  heart  sank. 

'  And  I,  Madame/  said  the  lawyer,  '  shall  be  pleased  to 
add  a  codicil  to  this  intelligence/ 

'Gentlemen,  I  have  already  this  morning  received  news 
enough  for  one  day  at  least.  Am  I,  gentlemen,  ordered  to 
adorn  the  next  procession  along  the  Oxford  Road? ' 

'  No,  Madame/  the  Governor  replied.  'But  I  wish  the 
news  were  more  joyful.  I  had  hoped  —  I  had  expected  — 
considering  the  whole  case ' 

I  looked  at  Jenny.  She  turned  suddenly  pale;  I  thought 
she  was  going  to  faint.  Consider:  she  had  persuaded  her- 
self that  a  full  and  immediate  pardon  would  be  granted. 
She  had  no  doubt  as  to  that  point.  She  did  not  faint;  she 
recovered  and  spoke  with  white  lips  and  a  hard  forced 
voice. 

'Tell  me  quick!' 

'  Madame,  His  Majesty  has  graciously  commuted  the 
sentence  into  transportation  to  the  plantations  for  the  term 
of  five  years/ 

Jenny  made  no  reply.  I  groaned  aloud.  Transporta- 
tion? To  go  out  as  a  servant!  To  be  bought  by  a  planter 
and  made  to  work  in  the  tobacco  fields  under  the  lash? 
This  for  Jenny!  All  the  world  knew  what  transportation 
meant  and  what  were  the  mercies  served  out  to  convicts. 

The  Governor  sighed  and  shook  his  head.  The  lawyer 
took  up  the  tale.  'Madame/  he  said,  'believe  me;  every- 
thing has  been  done  that  could  be  done.  Had  you  pleaded 
Not  Guilty  you  would  most  certainly  have  been  acquitted. 
Madame,  I  know  your  reasons,  and  I  respect  them.  You 
pleaded  Guilty.  Your  reasons  were  not  such  as  could  be 
laid  before  the  King,  unless  privately.  The  Judge  in  your 
case  is  a  lawyer  of  great  eminence;  that  is  to  say,  he  is 
jealous  of  the  Law;  he  holds  that  above  all  things  the 
Law  must  be  feared.  He  is  called  a  hanging  Judge,  being 
a  most  merciful  man;  but  the  Law  must  be  respected. 
There  must  not  be  one  Law  for  the  rich  rogue  and  another 
for  the  poor  rogue/ 

*  Rich  or  poor/  said  Jenny,  '  I  am  a  rogue  for  having 
stolen  nightcaps  in  my  garrets;  and  I  am  a  rogue  and  -a 
vagabond  because  I  am  an  actress/ 

'  Nay,  Madame ;  but  the  Toast  of  the  Town,  the  most 
lovely ' 


3i 8  The  Orange  Girl 

1  My  loveliness  does  not  stand  me  in  much  stead  at  this 
juncture.  Tell  me  again.  I  am  to  be  shipped  across  seas: 
I  am  to  stay  there  five  years:  I  am  to  herd  on  board  with 
the  wretched  women  outside:  I  am  to  work  in  the  fields 
with  them  and  with  negroes:  I  am  to  be  whipped  by  my 
master:  I  am  to  live  on  sweet  potatoes.  I  am  to  wear 
sacking  for  all  my  clothes.  Gentlemen,'  she  added  with 
flushed  cheek,  '  go,  tell  the  King  that  I  will  not  accept  this 
mercy/ 

'  Nay,  Madame,'  said  the  lawyer  with  persuasive  tongue. 
'  You  go  too  fast.  Those  who  have  friends  can  evade  the 
obligations  of  service;  you,  who  have  so  many  friends,  will 
find  that  you  have  nothing  to  fear  beyond  the  voyage  and 
a  short  residence  in  a  pleasant  climate.  For  my  own  part, 
dear  Madame,  I  hope  to  see  you  before  another  year  begins 
back  upon  the  boards  of  Drury  Lane,  with  all  the  town  at 
your  feet.  I  pine,  Madame,  I  languish  for  the  first  evening 
to  arrive.' 

'  Jenny,'  I  whispered,  '  for  Heaven's  sake  be  careful. 
Consider;  this  gentleman  cannot  be  deceiving  you.  If 
there  is,  as  he  says,  no  real  obligation  to  service;  and  if,  as 
he  says,  the  sentence  means  only  a  short  residence  in  a 
pleasant  country  —  then  surely  you  must  accept.  There  is, 
however,  the  voyage.  Perhaps,  Sir,'  I  addressed  the  lawyer, 
'  it  will  be  possible  for  Madame  to  take  the  voyage  in  a 
private  cabin  apart  from  the  rest  of  the  —  the  company.' 

'  It  will  certainly  be  possible.  She  may  take  state  rooms 
for  herself  and  her  maid:  she  will  be  treated  as  a  gentle- 
woman. It  is  only  a  question  of  arrangement  with  the 
Captain.  Madame,  I  assure  you,  upon  my  honour,  that  the 
sentence  means  no  more  than  what  I  have  stated.  It  is  a 
brief  exile  in  which  you  will  endure  no  other  indignity  than 
that  of  sailing  on  board  the  ship  which  carries  a  few  scores 
of  the  wretches  going  out  as  slaves  —  if  one  may  call  an 
Englishman  a  slave.' 

Jenny  wavered.  Her  cheek  was  still  red  with  shame  and 
disappointment.  She  wavered. 

*  Jenny/  I  said,  taking  her  hand. 

She  sat  down.     '  Let  it  be,  then,  as  you  will.' 

'  That  is  bravely  resolved,'  said  the  Governor.  '  And 
now  I  shall  have  the  pleasure  of  removing  you  immediately 
from  this  close  and  confined  chamber  to  one  more  airy  and 
more  commodious.' 


Out  of  the  Frying  Pan  Into  the  Fire    319 

'  Gentlemen/  said  Jenny,  still  crestfallen,  '  I  thank  you 
both  for  your  good  intentions.  I  should  love  you  better 
if  you  would  put  a  sword  through  me  and  so  end  it.  Per- 
haps, however,  the  ship  may  go  to  the  bottom.  Let  us 
hope  so.  It  must  sink,  I  am  sure,  so  heavy  will  be  the 
heart  of  lead  on  board  it.' 

So,  with  renewed  protestations  of  assistance  and  good- 
will the  lawyer  went  away  with  the  Governor.  In  the  yard 
I  observed  that  he  stopped  and  looked  upon  the  crowd  of 
women,  many  of  whom  he  would  help  to  the  gallows. 
Does  such  a  lawyer,  always  occupied  in  getting  up  and 
preparing  a  case,  so  as  to  persuade  a  jury  into  a  verdict  of 
'  Guilty '  ever  feel  remorse  at  having  done  so,  or  repug- 
nance at  doing  it  again?  Do  the  ghosts  of  those  whom 
he  has  sent  to  the  other  world  haunt  his  bedside  at  night? 
One  may  as  well  ask  if  the  Judge  who  pronounces  the 
sentence  feels  remorse  or  pity.  He  is  the  mouth  of  the 
Law;  the  Counsel  feeds  the  mouth;  the  Governor  of  New- 
gate is  the  arm  of  the  Law.  However,  that  the  Counsel 
for  the  Prosecution  should  take  so  much  interest  in  the 
release  of  a  prisoner  is,  I  should  think,  without  example  in 
the  history  of  Newgate,  where  they  have  never  had  before, 
and  can  never  have  again,  a  prisoner  so  lovely,  so  attractive, 
so  interesting,  as  Jenny.  After  him  came  another  visitor. 
It  was  my  Lord  Brockenhurst  who  brought  us  the  news 
we  had  already  heard  —  but  with  a  difference. 

'  Madame,'  he  said,  after  telling  us  what  we  had  already 
heard,  'I  shall  always  regret  that  I  was  not  the  first  to  let 
you  know.  Indeed,  I  have  flown.  The  commutation  of 
the  sentence  involves  a  voyage;  that  cannot  be  denied;  but 
there  is  no  obligation  to  service.  That  will  be  arranged 
for  you;  I  can  undertake  so  much,  if  necessary.  The  voy- 
age is  no  great  matter;  six  weeks  if  you  are  fortunate; 
eight  weeks,  at  most,  will  set  you  on  shore;  the  country 
is  said  to  be  beautiful;  the  climate  is  healthy,  the  Virginians 
are  mostly  gentlemen  of  good  family/ 

'  I  thank  you,  my  Lord,  for  your  kind  words/ 

'  There  is  another  thing,  Madame.  I  am  empowered  to 
assure  you  that  the  Petition  which  you  drew  up  for  your 
young  protegee  here  has  been  graciously  received  by  Her 
Majesty  the  Queen.  She  has  herself  asked  for  the  remis- 
sion of  the  capital  sentence.  The  girl's  life  will  be  spared/ 

'  This  is  good  news,  at  least/ 


3  20  The  Orange  Girl 

'  On  conditions,  which  you  must  expect.  She  will  go 
with  you  to  Virginia  for  five  years.  You  can  take  her  as 
your  maid,  if  you  please.' 

'  With  me  for  five  years? '  Jenny  repeated.  '  I  know  so 
little  of  what  is  ordered ' 

*  Briefly,  Madame,  a  prisoner  under  sentence  of  transpor- 
tation is  engaged  as  a  servant,  generally  on  a  tobacco 
plantation,  where  he  works  with  the  negroes.     If  there 
should  happen  to  be  one  among  them  of  a  superior  class 
he  becomes  an  accountant  or  even  a  manager;  or  if  he  can 
command  influence  or  money  his  engagement  is  merely 
nominal.     Your  engagement  will  be  a  form  which  I  shall 
arrange  for  you.     This  girl  can  remain  with  you.     When 
you  come  home  you  can  bring  her  with  you/ 

'In  five  years?' 

'  No  —  in  much  less  time  —  in  a  few  months.  I  am  per- 
mitted on  the  highest  authority  to  assure  you  that  your 
banishment  will  be  but  short.  As  soon  as  it  can  with 
decency  be  asked  for,  a  full  pardon  will  be  asked  for  and 
it  will  be  granted.  You  will  then  only  have  to  return  in 
order  to  delight  your  friends  once  more/ 

'  When  shall  I  have  to  go? ' 

'  A  ship  is  now  fitting  out.  She  sails  in  a  week  or  a  fort- 
night. You  will  sail  as -a  cabin  passenger,  entrusted  to 
the  protection  of  the  Captain.  The  —  the  other  —  passen- 
gers will  be  confined  between  decks,  I  believe/ 

'  My  Lord,  I  am  deeply  touched  by  all  your  kindness/ 

*  Madame,  /  have  done  little  —  little  indeed.     Would  it 
had  been  more!     I  shall  now,  with  your  permission,  make 
arrangements  with  the  Captain  of  the  ship  for  your  enter- 
tainment on  the  voyage  and  your  reception  on  reaching 
the  port/ 

'  So/  said  Jenny,  '  in  one  day  I  am  deprived  of  my  hus- 
band. I  am  a  widow  who  never  was  a  wife.  I  am  deprived 
of  my  country  —  which  is  London ;  and  of  all  my  friends/ 

His  lordship's  face  changed.  'Your  husband,  Madame? 
Is  he  dead?' 

'  He  died  last  night.     Let  us  not  speak  of  him/ 

'  Then  you  are  free '  He  glanced  at  me :  I  saw  his  mean- 
ing and  the  purpose  in  his  eyes.  '  You  are  free ' 

I  stepped  out,  leaving  them  together.  In  a  few  minutes 
he  came  out  with  the  look  of  one  distracted,  and  not  know- 
ing what  he  was  doing  or  whither  he  went. 


Out  of  the  Frying  Pan  Into  the  Fire    321 

Within  the  cell  Jenny  was  sitting  at  the  table  with  red 
and  tearful  eyes. 

'  That  good  and  noble  friend,  Will  would  make  me  Lady 
Brockenhurst.' 

' Jenny  —  why  not?' 

'He  would  go  with  me:  he  would  marry  me  here  and 
sail  with  me.  No  —  no  —  I  promised  his  sister.  What? 
Because  I  love  a  man  —  the  best  of  men  —  should  I  give 
him  children  who  would  be  ashamed  of  their  mother  and 
her  origin?  Mine  would  be  a  pretty  history  for  them  to 
learn,  would  it  not?  No,  Will,  no.  Believe  me  I  love  him 
too  well.  Even  if  he  were  a  meaner  man,  I  could  never 
bring  my  history  to  smirch  the  chronicles  of  a  respectable 
family.' 

She  was  silent  a  little.  '  Will,'  she  said  presently,  looking 
up,  '  all  that  I  foretold  has  proved  true.  I  want  no  money. 
I  am  going  out  to  a  strange  country.  It  is  not  Ireland  as  I 
thought.  It  is  Virginia.  I  see  it  again  so  plain  —  so  clear 
—  I  shall  know  it  when  I  land.  But  I  can  see  no  farther. 
There  will  be  no  return  for  me  to  Drury  Lane.  My  vision 
stops  short  —  now  that  I  see  you  —  somewhere  —  with  me 
—  I  see  Alice  also.  But  I  cannot  see  England  or  London  — 
or  the  Black  Jack  or  Drury  Lane.' 

Then  we  moved  to  the  more  commodious  chamber,  where 
I  soothed  her  spirits  with  a  cup  of  tea  which  is  better  far 
than  wine  or  cordials  for  the  refreshment  of  the  mind.  Pres- 
ently she  began  to  recover  a  little  from  her  disappointment. 

'  It  will  be  lonely  at  first,'  she  said,  'without  a  single 
friend,  and  I  suppose  that  a  transported  convict  —  say  that 
for  me,  Will  —  it  hath  a  strange  sound.  It  is  like  a  slap  in 
the  face  —  a  transported  convict ' 

'  Nay,  Jenny,  do  not  say  it.' 

'I  must.  I  say  that  though  a  transported  convict  must 
be  despised,  yet  I  shall  have  my  girl  here  with  me,  and 
perhaps  my  Lord  will  prove  right  and  I  may  come  home 
again.  Yet  I  do  not  think  so.  Will,  there  is  one  conso- 
lation. At  last  I  shall  get  clean  away  from  my  own 
people.  They  used  to  congregate  round  the  stage-door  of  the 
Theatre  to  congratulate  their  old  friend  on  her  success.  The 
Orange-Girls  were  never  tired  of  claiming  old  friendship. 
I  married  in  order  to  get  away  from  them,  but  Matthew 
never  meant  to  keep  his  promise  —  I  am  tired,  Will,  of  my 


3  22  The  Orange  Girl 

own  people.  They  have  made  me  suffer  too  much.  Hence- 
forth let  them  go  and  hang  without  any  help  from  me.' 

'  It  is  high  time,  Jenny.' 

'The  Act  ends  lamely,  perhaps.  It  may  be  the  last  Act 
of  the  Play.  The  ship  leaves  the  Quay.  On  the  deck  stands 
the  heroine  in  white  satin,  waving  her  handkerchief.  The 
people  weep.  The  bo's'n  blows  his  whistle.  The  sailors 
stamp  about;  the  curtain  falls.  Will,  if  things  are  real  — 
what  am  I  to  do  when  I  get  back  —  if  I  do  get  back?  How 
am  I  to  live?' 

'  Jenny/  I  said  seriously,  '  I  believe  that  one  so  good 
and  so  fearless,  for  whom  daily  prayers  are  offered,  will  be 
led  by  no  will  of  her  own,  into  some  way  of  peace  and 
happiness.' 

*  Think  you  so,  good  cousin?  There  spoke  Alice.  It 
is  her  language.  She  says  that  beyond  the  stars  are  eyes 
that  can  see  and  hands  that  can  lead.  Why,  Will,  for  my 
people,  the  only  hand  that  leads  is  the  hand  of  hunger:  the 
only  hand  that  directs  is  the  hand  with  the  whip  in  it;  as 
for  eyes  that  see ' —  she  shook  her  head  sadly  — '  I  wish  there 
were,'  she  said.  '  Perhaps  there  would  then  be  some  order 
in  St.  Giles's.  And  there  would  be  some  hope  for  the  poor 
rogues.  Oh!  Will  —  the  poor  helpless,  ignorant,  miserable 
rogues  —  of  whom  I  am  one  —  a  transported  convict  —  a 
transported  convict  —  how  we  suffer !  how  we  die !  And 

rss  away  and  are  forgotten!     Will     .     .     .     Will     .     .     . 
go  with  a  heavy  heart  —  I  go  to  meet  my  death.     For 
never  more  shall  I  return.     Where  is  the  eye  that  sees?     Oh! 
Will —  where  is  the  hand  that  leads?' 


CHAPTER  XXV 

TRANSPORTATION 

IN  THE  evening  when  I  left  the  prison,  it  was  with  emotions 
strange  and  bewildering.  Jenny,  who  was  to  have  received 
a  free  pardon,  was  sent,  a  self-accused  convict,  to  the  planta- 
tions. To  the  plantations,  where  they  send  the  common 
rogues  and  villains.  She  was  to  go  out  on  board  a  convict 
ship,  counted  happy  because  although  one  of  that  shameful 


Out  of  the  Frying  Pan  Into  the  Fire    323 

company,  she  was  not  kept  below  all  the  voyage  on  convict 
fare  with  those  wretches  vile  and  unspeakable. 

And  I  was  rich.  After  all  these  troubles :  after  my  father's 
displeasure:  after  my  disinheritance:  after  my  persecution 
and  imprisonment:  I  was  rich 

And  Matthew,  the  cause  of  all,  was  dead. 

Truly  the  hand  of  the  Lord  had  been  heavy  upon  them 
all.  Matthew  dying  in  starvation  and  misery.  Mr.  Probus, 
lying  in  prison,  a  pauper  and  blind:  Merridew  stoned  to 
death:  the  other  two  escaped  with  life,  but  that  was  all. 
But  the  innocent  were  suffering  with  the  guilty:  the  old 
man  Alderman  languishing  in  a  debtors'  prison  with  no 
hope  of  release:  and  Jenny  a  convict  to  be  transported  across 
the  seas.  They  did  well  to  call  it  a  voyage:  a  short  exile 
in  a  pleasant  climate:  she  was  a  convict:  she  was  under 
sentence. 

And  I  was  rich.  So  I  kept  saying  to  myself  as  I  walked 
home  that  evening.  So  Ikept  saying  to  Alice  when  I  told 
her  what  had  happened  while  we  sat  till  late  at  night  talking 
over  these  acts  of  Providence. 

We  were  to  see  her  go  far  away  across  the  ocean  —  a 
convict,  never  perhaps  to  return:  to  see  her  go  alone,  save 
for  her  little  maid :  in  danger  of  wicked  men  of  whom  there 
are  plenty  over  every  part  of  the  world:  perhaps,  in  spite 
of  what  was  said,  a  servant  even,  at  her  master's  beck  and 
call:  the  woman  to  whom  I  owed  more  than  life:  far  more 
than  life:  honour:  and  the  respect  of  the  world:  and  the 
happiness  of  my  children  and  grand-children :  yea,  even  unto 
the  third  and  fourth  generation.  What  was  wealth?  Where 
was  its  happiness  when  we  had  to  think  of  Jenny?  It  was 
this  woman,  I  say,  who  by  her  ready  wit,  her  generosity,  her 
fearlessness  in  the  presence  of  risks  certain  and  dangers 
inevitable,  made  my  innocence  as  clear  as  the  noonday's 
sun.  For  this  service  shall  her  name  be  blessed  among 
those  who  come  after  me  and  bear  my  name  and  are  stimu- 
lated to  deeds  of  honour  by  the  thought  that  they  come  of 
an  honourable  stock.  Think  of  the  burden  upon  their  lives 
had  they  been  doomed  to  remember  that  their  father  or  their 
grandfather  before  them  had  suffered  a  shameful  death  for 
highway  robbery! 

Jenny  saved  me  —  but  at  what  a  price!  She  braved  the 
worst  that  the  rogues,  her  former  friends,  could  do  to  her. 
She  compelled  her  own  people:  their  own  associates  to 


324  The  Orange  Girl 

betray  them  in  order  to  prove  my  innocence.  She  paid  for 
the  betrayal  by  prison,  trial  and  ruin.  She  poured  out  her 
money  like  water  in  order  that  no  doubt  whatever  should 
exist  in  the  mind  of  the  Court  or  the  Jury  as  to  the  real 
character  of  the  witnesses.  In  return  she  endured  the  foul 
air  and  the  foul  companionship  of  Newgate  and  a  shameful 
transportation  to  Virginia,  there  to  be  set  up,  if  her  sentence 
was  carried  out,  and  sold  as  a  slave  for  five  years.  It  was 
no  common  gratitude  —  we  repeated  over  and  over  again  — 
that  we  owed  her  for  this  service.  We  owed  her  all  —  all  — 
all  —  that  we  possessed  or  ever  could  possess. 

But  money  cannot  effect  everything:  it  could  not,  in  this 
case,  give  Jenny  the  full  pardon  and  the  immediate  release 
we  desired. 

In  the  dead  of  night,  as  I  lay  sleepless,  tortured  in  my 
mind  because  I  could  think  of  nothing  that  we  could  do 
for  Jenny,  who  had  done  so  much  for  us,  Alice  spoke  to  me, 
sitting  up  in  bed. 

'  Husband,'  she  said,  and  then  she  fell  to  weeping  for 
a  while  and  it  seemed  as  if  she  could  not  stop  her  crying 
and  sobbing  —  but  they  were  tears  of  prayer  and  praise. 
'Let  us  talk.  It  is  yet  night.  The  world  sleeps;  but  the 
Lord  is  awake.  Let  us  talk.' 

So  we  talked. 

'  I  am  heavy  in  my  mind  about  that  poor  creature/  she 
began. 

'  And  I  no  less,  my  dear.' 

'  We  must  not  think  that  the  innocent  are  punished  with 
the  guilty.  That  old  man  the  Alderman  is  pulled  down 
by  his  son:  they  lie  in  ruin  together:  but  he  is  innocent:  for 
this  reason  he  has  been  permitted  to  lose  his  wits  and  now 
feels  nothing.  Jenny  suffers  because  though  she  is  innocent 
in  intention,  she  is  guilty  in  fact.  Will,  if  I  think  of  that 
poor  creature, -so  good  and  generous  and  so  self-denying: 
and  of  the  company  among  whom  she  has  lived:  and  of  the 
people  among  whom  she  was  born:  and  how  she  has  no 
religion,  not  the  least  sense  of  religion,  I  think  that  this  new 
business  may  be  but  the  leading  of  the  poor  trembling 
soul  to  knowledge.' 

'  She  is  assured  that  before  long  she  will  be  permitted  to 
return.' 

'  Perhaps  she  will  not  be  permitted  to  return.  There  is 
One  who  is  higher  than  kings.' 


Out  of  the  Frying  Pan  Into  the  Fire    325 

'What  would  you  do,  Alice ?' 

*  Let  us  ask  ourselves,  Will,  what  we  are  to  do  with  our 
new  riches.  I  am  but  a  homely  body,  I  cannot  become  a 
fine  lady.  As  for  yourself,  remember,  my  dear,  that  you 
have  been  a  musician,  playing  for  your  livelihood  at  the 
Dog  and  Duck:  and  you  have  stood  your  trial  at  the  Old 
Bailey:  and  you  have  been  in  a  Debtors'  Prison:  and  your 
father's  House  is  bankrupt:  and  your  name  is  held  in  con- 
tempt where  formerly  it  was  in  honour.  Where  will  you 
seek  your  new  friends?  In  the  country?  But  the  Quality 
despise  a  musician.  In  the  City?  They  despise  a  musician 
much:  prisoner  for  debt,  more:  a  bankrupt,  most.7 

'  I  know  not  what  is  in  your  mind,  Alice/ 

'  I  am  coming  to  it,  my  dear.  Remember,  once  more, 
what  you  said  to-night  that  we  owe  her  all  —  all  —  all. 
Your  life:  your  honour:  your  son's  pride  in  his  father:  my 
life,  for  the  agony  and  the  shame  would  have  killed  me.  Oh! 
Will,  what  can  we  do  for  her?  What  can  we  give  her  in 
return  for  benefits  and  services  such  as  these?7 

'  I  will  give  her  all  I  have,  my  dear,  my  whole  fortune, 
this  new  great  fortune.  I  will  give  her  everything  but  you, 
my  dear,  and  the  boy.' 

'  Money  she  does  not  want  and  it  will  not  help  her  in  this 
strait.' 

'What  then  can  we  do?  We  have  gratitude  —  it  is  hers. 
And  our  fortune,  it  is  hers  if  she  will  take  it.' 

'Oh!  Will,  be  patient  with  me,  dear.  We  can  give  her 
indeed,  all  that  we  have:  we  can  give  her' — she  bent  over 
me  and  kissed  me,  and  her  tears  fell  upon  my  forehead  — 
'we  can  give  her,  Will  —  ourselves.' 

'What?' 

'We  can  give  her  —  ourselves.  The  whole  of  our  lives. 
We  can  become  her  servants  in  grateful  thanks  for  all  that 
she  has  done  for  us/ 

'But  how,  Alice,  how?' 

'Consider:  she  is  going  out  to  a  new  country  —  alone. 
We  know  not  into  what  company  she  may  fall.  It  is  a 
rough  country  not  yet  fully  settled  I  am  told:  there  are 
fierce  Indians  and  cruel  snakes  and  wild  beasts  —  though  I 
fear  the  men  worse  than  the  beasts.  Who  will  protect  her? 
She  is  beautiful  and  men  are  sometimes  driven  mad  by 
beauty  in  women.' 

I  began  to  understand. 


326  The  Orange  Girl 

'Let  us  go  away  with  her  to  this  new  country,  where 
she  shall  be  the  mistress  and  we  will  be  the  servants.  They 
say  it  is  a  beautiful  country,  with  fine  sunshine  and  fruits 
in  plenty.  Let  us  go  with  her,  Will,  and  protect  her  from 
dangers  and  teach  her  to  forget  the  thieves'  kitchen  and 
make  her  happy  among  the  flowers  and  the  woods.  We 
will  turn  her  captivity  into  a  holiday :  we  will  think  of  noth- 
ing in  the  world  but  to  make  her  happy.  I  have  told  you. 
Will,  what  is  in  my  mind.  And,  my  dear,  I  verily  believe 
the  Lord  Himself  has  put  it  there.' 

I  reflected  for  a  little.  Then  I  kissed  her.  '  I  am  con- 
tent, my  dear/  I  said.  '  As  you  desire,  so  shall  it  be.  We 
will  go  with  Jenny  and  become  her  servants  as  long  as  the 
duty  shall  be  laid  upon  us/ 

And  so  we  fell  asleep.  And  in  the  morning  this  thing 
seemed  a  dream.  But  it  was  no  dream.  Then  we  had  to 
begin  our  preparations.  It  would  be  close  on  three  weeks, 
we  learned,  before  the  ship,  the  Pride  of  Ratdiffe,  would 
be  ready  to  drop  down  the  river.  I  went  on  board  and 
saw  the  Captain.  He  told  us  that  Lord  Brockenhurst  had 
already  engaged  the  best  cabin  for  Madame,  that  although 
one  of  the  convicts  she  was  to  be  treated  differently:  to  be 
separated  from  the  rest:  not  to  mix  with  them:  wherein,  he 
said  grimly,  '  she  is  lucky  indeed/  With  her  and  in  her 
cabin  was  to  go  another  convict,  a  young  girl.  They  were 
to  mess  in  the  Captain's  cabin.  '  See,'  he  said,  '  what  it  is 
to  be  a  friend  of  a  noble  Lord.'  I  told  him  that  the  lady 
was  a  cousin  of  my  own,  which  disconcerted  him.  How- 
ever, without  many  more  words,  we  came  to  an  understand- 
ing. I  was  to  have  a  cabin  for  so  much.  And  the  Captain 
undertook  to  lay  in  provisions  for  us.  He  was  kind  enough 
to  draw  up  a  list  of  the  things  we  should  require :  it  appeared 
necessary  for  a  passenger  to  America  to  buy  up  half  the 
beeves  and  sheep  of  Smithfield,  together  with  all  the  turkey, 
geese  and  poultry,  of  Leadenhall,  not  to  speak  of  wine  and 
rum,  enough  for  the  whole  crew.  He  said  that  in  bad 
weather  so  much  of  the  live-stock  was  destroyed  that  it  was 
necessary  to  provide  against  these  accidents.  So  he  pre- 
vailed, and  I  think  I  kept  the  whole  ship's  company  with 
my  stores. 

The  ship  was  of  350  tons  burden,  a  stout,  well-built  ship, 
with  three  masts,  not  unlike  one  of  my  father's  West  India- 
men,  but  inferior  in  tonnage:  she  was  slow,  it  afterwards 


Out  of  the  Frying  Pan  Into  the  Fire    327 

appeared,  generally  doing  from  four  knots  an  hour,  or  about 
a  hundred  knots  a  day  at  such  times  as  there  was  a  favour- 
able wind.  If  the  wind  was  unfavourable,  as  generally  hap- 
pened, her  speed  was  much  less.  As  for  the  length  of  the 
voyage,  the  Captain  reckoned  that  taking  one  voyage  with 
another,  she  would  get  across  in  six  or  eight  weeks:  the 
uncertainty  of  the  time,  as  he  pointed  out,  as  well  as  the 
possibility  of  storms,  called  for  the  apparently  vast  quantity 
of  provisions  which  he  was  laying  in  for  our  party. 

And  now  began  a  busy  time.  First  I  communicated  our 
design  to  Mr.  Dewberry,  the  attorney,  who  entirely  approved 
of  it.  Next  I  arranged  with  him  for  the  safe  investment 
of  my  new  fortune  as  to  which  there  was  no  difficulty  at 
all  as  soon  as  the  death  of  Matthew  had  been  duly  proved 
and  attested.  The  amount  which  was  originally  £100,000 
had  now  by  the  accumulation  of  the  interest  become  over 
£120,000,  which,  at  five  per  cent.,  produced  the  enormous 
income  of  £6,000  a  year  —  more  than  a  hundred  pounds  a 
week.  What  would  we  do  with  a  hundred  pounds  a  week? 
Mr.  Dewberry  laughed.  '  I  have  never  yet/  he  said,  '  found 
a  rich  man  complaining  of  too  much  wealth.  For  the  most 
part  he  complains  of  poverty.  In  a  word,  Mr.  Halliday, 
your  wealth  will  before  many  months  cease  to  be  a  burden  to 
you.  But  remember,  great  as  is  this  income,  even  in  the 
wealthy  City  of  London,  and  enormous  as  it  will  be  in  the 
distant  land  of  Virginia,  there  are  limits  to  the  power  even 
of  such  an  income.  Keep  within  it:  keep  within  it.' 

It  matters  not  how  we  made  this  money  safe  —  that  is, 
as  safe  as  money  can  be  made.  There  are  stocks  and  shares 
in  the  National  Debt.  Some  of  these  were  obtained:  and 
there  were  houses  in  the  City  which  were  bought:  in  a  few 
days  my  excellent  attorney  put  my  affairs  in  such  order  that 
I  was  enabled  to  leave  England  without  fear,  and  to  be  pro- 
vided, moreover,  with  letters  of  credit  by  which  I  could  draw 
for  such  money  as  might  be  necessary  from  time  to  time. 
By  this  time  our  plans,  much  talked  about,  were  matured. 
We  would  purchase  an  estate,  as  a  plantation:  in  Virginia 
every  estate  is  a  plantation :  it  would  be  probably  a  tobacco- 
growing  estate  with  its  servants  and  slaves  and  buildings 
complete.  Thither  we  would  all  go  together  and  take  up 
our  abode.  Letters  were  provided  which  I  could  present 
to  responsible  and  honest  merchants  at  Baltimore,  by  whose 
assistance  I  hoped  to  get  what  we  desired,  and  we  resolved^ 


328  The  Orange  Girl 

further,  to  tell  Jenny  nothing  of  these  plans  until  we  were 
all  on  board  together. 

The  next  thing  was  to  find  out  what  we  should  take  out 
from  the  old  country  to  the  new.  It  was  reported  that 
already  they  made  nearly  everything  that  was  wanted:  such 
as  furniture  and  things  made  out  of  the  woods  of  the  country, 
which  are  various  and  excellent.  The  things  most  in 
demand  were  reported  to  be  knives,  tools,  and  ironmongery 
of  all  kinds:  guns  and  weapons:  clothes  of  the  better  kind, 
especially  dresses  for  gentlewomen  in  silk  and  satin  and 
embroidered  work.  Books,  music,  and  musical  instruments 
were  also  scarce.  I  laid  in  a  great  stock  of  all  these  things: 
they  were  packed  in  large  chests  bound  in  iron  and  sent  on 
board  as  they  were  bought. 

In  getting  these  purchases  and  in  procuring  this  informa- 
tion the  days  passed  quickly,  because  it  was  necessary  as 
well  that  I  should  visit  Jenny  every  day.  A  happy  bustling 
time.  After  all  the  trouble  of  the  past  it  was  pleasant  to 
think  of  a  new  world  opening  before  us  with  new  hopes  of 
happiness.  These  hopes  were  realized.  I  do  not  say  that 
people  are  better  in  the  New  World  than  in  the  Old;  every- 
where are  men  self-seeking  and  grasping:  but  there  is  less 
suffering,  less  poverty,  and,  I  believe,  none  of  such  infernal 
wickedness  as  may  be  devised  at  home  by  men  like  Probus 
and  Merridew.  Such  monstrous  growths  are  not  found  in 
a  new  country  where  the  population  is  thin,  and  there  is 
no  place  for  villains  to  hide  their  heads.  The  worst  trouble 
in  Virginia,  in  those  days,  was  with  the  convicts,  concerning 
whom  I  shall  speak  immediately. 

While  these  preparations  were  going  on,  Jenny  waited 
in  Newgate  somewhat  sadly.  Lord  Brockenhurst  came  to 
visit  her  daily:  she  had  the  girl  whom  she  had  saved  for  a 
maid:  the  lad  Jack  came  every  day  to  fetch  and  carry  and 
do  her  bidding.  I  said  nothing  to  this  fellow  of  our  pur- 
pose. One  day,  however,  while  he  waited  in  the  corridor 
outside  the  cell,  I  called  him  in  and  spoke  to  him  seriously. 
'  Jack/  I  said,  '  'tis  known  to  thee  that  Madame  sails  for 
America  in  a  week  or  so?' 

'  Ay,  Sir/  and  his  face  dropped. 

'What  will  you  do,  Jack?  There  is  the  old  company  of 
the  kitchen  at  the  Black  Jack :  if  that  is  broken  up  they  have 
gone  to  the  Spotted  Dog/ 


Out  of  the  Frying  Pan  Into  the  Fire    329 

'  No,  Sir/  he  said  stoutly,  '  I  will  be  a  rogue  no  more.  I 
have  promised  Madame/ 

'Then  there  is  the  village.  You  could  go  home  again, 
Jack/ 

'  They  will  not  have  me/ 

'Then,  Jack,  what  will  you  do  ?' 

He  held  his  hat  in  his  hands,  and  then  with  tears  rolling 
down  his  cheeks  he  fell  on  his  knees  to  Jenny.  '  Take  me 
with  you,  Madame/  he  said.  '  I  will  be  your  faithful  servant 
to  command.  Only  take  me  with  you.' 

'  Alas,  Jack !  who  am  I  that  I  should  have  a  servant  with 
me  who  shall  be  but  a  servant  myself.  Poor  lad,  I  cannot 
take  thee/ 

'  By  your  leave,  Jenny/  I  said.  '  There  will  be  a  little 
maid  to  wait  upon  you  and  you  will  want  Jack  to  protect 
both  you  and  her.  If  you  consent  to  take  him,  he  shall  go/ 

'  But,  Will,  you  know  the  conditions.  I  shall  not  be  mis- 
tress even  of  myself/ 

'  That  is  provided.     Did  not  Lord  Brockenhurst  promise? ' 

'Lord  Brockenhurst  will  do  what  he  can.  Of  that  I 
have  no  doubt.  But  as  to  his  power  across  the  Atlantic,  of 
that  I  have  grave  doubts/ 

'Jenny/  I  took  her  hand.  'Do  you  trust  my  word? 
Could  I  deceive  you?  Could  I  ever  hold  out  hopes  unless 
I  knew  that  they  were  well  grounded  ?' 

'Why,  Will,  whom  should  I  trust  if  not  you?' 

'Then,  Jenny,  listen  and  believe.  It  is  so  arranged  and 
provided  that  on  landing  in  America  you  will  be  provided 
with  a  house  fit  for  your  station  and  with  everything,  so 
long  as  you  may  stay  in  the  country,  that  a  gentlewoman 
can  require.  And  all  that  you  have  or  enjoy  will  be  yours 

—  your  own  —  and  over  all  you  shall  be  mistress/ 
'  Dear  Will  —  this  providing  is  your  providing/ 

'A  manservant  you  must  have  to  begin  with.  Negroes 
there  are  in  plenty,  but  an  English  manservant  —  an  honest ' 

—  here  I  looked  Jack  in  the  face ;  he  reddened  and  was  con- 
fused— 'an  honest,  strong,  capable,  faithful  servant,  that 
you  want,  Jenny;  and  that  you  must  have,  and  here  he  is/ 
I  clapped  the  fellow  on  the  shoulder  as  he  still  knelt  before 
his  mistress. 

'  Get  up,  Jack/  she  said.  '  Since  it  must  be  so,  it  must. 
But  you  must  thank  Mr.  Halliday  and  not  me/ 

It  was  not  a  servant  that  she  took  out  with  her  but  a 


330  The  Orange  Girl 

slave,  one  of  those  willing  slaves  to  whom  their  slavery  is 
freedom,  who  have  no  thoughts  or  desires  of  their  own; 
none  but  the  thought  how  best  to  please  their  Lords  or 
Ladies.  Such  servants  are  rare,  except  those  who  have 
served  in  the  army,  where  duty  is  taught  to  be  the  first 
virtue. 

'  At  least/  said  Jenny,  '  I  shall  not  be  put  ashore  alone 
or  among  the  gang  of  poor  creatures  with  whom  I  ought 
to  stand  as  a  companion/  And  indeed  the  prospect  of  this 
strong  fellow  to  protect  her  at  the  outset  caused  her,  I  was 
pleased  to  find,  no  slight  consolation.  Yet  I  dared  not  tell 
her  till  it  was  too  late  to  be  altered,  the  resolution  which 
we  had  formed  to  go  with  her  as  well. 

Despite  the  injurious  treatment  of  my  two  cousins,  I  took 
it  greatly  to  heart  that  the  unfortunate  Alderman  should, 
for  no  fault  of  his  own,  be  condemned  to  imprisonment  for 
the  short  remainder  of  his  days.  He  was  past  understanding 
where  he  was.  In  imagination  he  rolled  in  his  chariot  from 
Clapham  Common  to  the  Wharf  and  Counting  House:  he 
received  the  Captains  of  the  West  Indiamen:  he  appeared 
on  Change:  he  dined  with  his  Company:  he  sat  on  the 
Bench:  he  walked  in  his  garden:  he  cut  pine-apples  and 
grapes  in  his  hothouses.  He  was  quite  happy.  But  there 
was  the  shame  of  knowing  that  he  was  there  and  that  he 
was  supported  by  the  charity  of  his  old  friends. 

Accordingly  I  sought  Mr.  Dewberry's  advice  and  help. 
There  was  now  but  little  time  to  be  lost,  a  matter  which 
made  things  easier,  because,  Mr.  Dewberry  said,  so  long  as 
there  was  any  chance  of  getting  more  by  putting  off  the 
matter  it  would  be  put  off.  In  a  word,  he  called  together 
the  creditors.  They  were  fortunately  a  small  body:  all  those 
who  had  claims  in  respect  to  Jenny's  liabilities  were  cut  off 
by  Matthew's  death.  The  debt  of  Mr.  Probus  was  also 
removed  by  his  death  because  it  was  an  account  of  monies 
borrowed  by  Matthew  privately.  There  remained  the  debts 
of  the  House,  and  these  were  due  to  merchants  and  to  banks. 
The  creditors  met,  therefore,  and  I  attended.  Mr.  Dewberry 
pointed  out  that  my  desire  was  the  release  of  my  uncle :  that 
the  creditors  had  no  claim  upon  me:  that  anything  I  might 
offer  with  the  view  of  attaining  that  object  was  a  free 
and  voluntary  gift:  that  if  the  creditors  refused  this  gift  they 
would  never  get  anything  at  all :  and  finally  that  they  should 
consider  that  the  poor  man  now  in  prison  had  not  been  a 


Out  of  the  Frying  Pan  Into  the  Fire    331 

party  to  any  of  the  transactions  which  led  to  the  ruin  of  the 
House. 

They  asked  half  an  hour  to  consider.  At  the  end  of  that 
time,  they  offered  to  accept  in  full  discharge  of  all  claims, 
two  shillings  in  the  pound.  I  was  advised  to  accept  this 
offer.  It  took  nearly  £20,000  out  of  my  fortune;  in  fact, 
all  the  accumulations.  But  I  had  the  satisfaction  before  I 
left  of  releasing  my  uncle  from  his  chamber  in  the  loathed 
King's  Bench. 

I  knew  how  I  should  be  received  by  my  cousins:  but 
words  break  no  bones.  Besides,  I  wished  to  release  him,  so 
to  speak,  with  my  own  hands. 

'You  are  come  again  then,'  said  my  elder  cousin,  who 
for  some  reason  unknown,  was  much  the  more  bitter  of  the 
two.  'There  is  your  handiwork.  Gaze  upon  it/  she  pointed 
to  her  father,  'and  exult !  Exult !' 

'  On  the  whole,'  I  said,  '  I  can,  this  day  at  least,  exult  in 
my  work.' 

'  It  is  your  doing.  None  but  yours.  If  you  had  signed 
what  he  wished  this  misery  would  have  been  saved.  And 
you  would  have  had  quite  as  much  as  one  in  your  beggarly 
trade  could  desire.' 

'  Thank  you,  cousin.     You  are  always  kind  to  me.' 

'  You  are  my  brother's  murderer.  You  have  ruined  my 
father,'  she  added. 

'I  am  anything  you  wish.  Indeed,  I  have  no  reply  to 
make  to  such  charges  as  these.  Meantime  I  have  come 
here  to-day  in  order  to  release  your  father.  Down  below 
waits  the  attorney  with  his  discharge  in  due  form.  He  is 
free.  You  can  take  him  out  of  the  Prison.' 

'Out  of  prison?' 

They  both  stared  at  me.  Their  eyes  flashed:  the  sudden 
joy  of  liberty  seized  them:  they  sprang  to  their  feet. 

'Free?  He  is  free? ''cried  the  younger.  'Father,  you 
are  free  —  do  you  hear?' 

'Free?'  he  replied.  I  have  been  free  of  the  City  for  six- 
and-thirty  years.' 

Free ! '  echoed  the  elder.  '  What  is  the  good  of  freedom 
without  the  means  of  getting  a  living?  Free?  Let  us  stay 
here,  where  at  least  we  have  a  guinea  a  week.' 

'  Your  livelihood  is  provided  for.  You  will  receive  during 
your  three  lives  the  sum  of  three  guineas  paid  weekly.' 

'Three    guineas?'    The    younger     caught     my     hand. 


332  The  Orange  Girl 

'Cousin  Will!  Oh!  It  is  our  living.  It  is  everything  to 
us  poor  paupers.  Will,  I  doubt  we  have  misjudged  you.' 

Her  sister  snatched  her  hand  away.  *  Don't  touch  him!' 
she  cried.  '  Don't  speak  to  him !  Three  guineas  a  week ! 
The  miserable  pittance!  and  he  has  thousands  —  thousands 
—  thousands  a  year ' —  her  voice  rose  to  a  shriek  — '  which 
ought  to  have  been  our  murdered  brother's  and  our  own ! ' 

One  must  never  look  for  gratitude  or  even  for  reason- 
able recognition:  or  for  the  courtesy  of  thanks:  but  these 
words  were  really  more  shrewish  and  more  bitter  than  one 
can  endure.  However,  I  made  no  reply  and  left  them, 
pleased  at  least  that  one  of  them  could  be  moved  to  con- 
fessing her  prejudice.  I  know  not  what  became  of  them,  nor 
have  I  ever  heard  tidings  of  them  since  that  day. 

One  more  addition  was  made  to  our  party. 

My  brother-in-law,  Tom  Shirley,  came  to  me  one  morning 
with  a  serious  face  —  serious  at  least,  for  him.  'Will,'  he 
said,  '  I  have  been  thinking  about  my  own  concerns,  that 
is,  -my  wife  has  been  thinking  about  them  for  me.  It  is  a 
great  advantage  for  a  man  to  give  over  that  part  of  his 
business  to  his  wife.' 

'Well,  Tom?' 

'  She  says,  if  I  remember  right,  because  she  has  been 
saying  a  good  deal,  that  so  long  as  I  am  content  to  play 
first  fiddle  at  the  Dog  and  Duck  for  thirty  shillings  a  week 
it  matters  not,  as  we  shall  never  get  on,  and  shall  have  to 
live  in  the  Rules  all  our  life.  Well,  Will,  I  would  as  lief  live 
in  the  Rules  as  out  of  them.  There  is  very  good  company 
in  the  Rules,  almost  as  good  as  in  the  King's  Bench  itself.' 

'  She  is  not  content  that  you  should  always  play  the  fiddle 
at  that  place,  and  you  are.  Is  that  so?' 

'  For  the  patronage  of  aristocracy  and  the  esteem  of  an 
audience  of  taste  there  is  no  equal  to  the  Dog  and  Duck,' 
he  replied  gravely,  as  if  he  meant  what  he  said  of  the  dirty 
disreputable  haunt  of  "prentices  and  their  kind.  'But  I  con- 
fess, Will,  that  there  are  times  when  I  consider  my  musical 
compositions  and  when  I  long  for  a  wider  popularity.  I 
think  that  I  should  like  an  opportunity  to  get  my  name 
better  known.  At  the  Dog  and  Duck  the  noble  audience 
doth  not  ask  the  name  of  the  composer.' 

'You  would  leave  the  Rules  if  you  could,  and  go  live  at 
Westminster,  where  there  are  concerts  and  rich  patrons? 


Out  of  the  Frying  Pan  Into  the  Fire    333 

Well,  Tom,  we  are  now  rich.  We  might  manage  that  for 
you  I  believe/ 

He  shook  his  head.  '  No.  Best  not  waste  good  money. 
I  should  only  get  back  here  again  in  a  month  or  two.  My 
dear  Will,  if  you  only  knew  how  difficult  it  is  to  refuse  when 
things  are  offered  on  credit.  Now,  in  the  Rules  no  one 
has  any  credit,  so  that  we  save  all  our  money.' 

I  never  heard  of  Tom's  saving  any  money.  However,  I 
asked  him  what  he  would  have. 

He  would  go  with  me.  But  did  they  want  music  in 
Virginia  ?' 

'  Perhaps  not  now.  Wait,  however,  till  they  have  heard 
and  seen  me.  I  believe  there  is  no  musical  composer,  yet,  in 
the  Province.  I  will  be  the  first  Virginian  musician.  I  will 
be  the  Handel  of  Virginia.' 

'Well,  Tom,  why  not?'  The  knowledge  of  my  great 
income  made  me  yielding.  Was  there  not  enough  for  a 
dozen  Toms?  '  I  dare  say  we  could  pay  out  your  detaining 
creditors  with  no  great  difficulty.' 

'  Not  for  the  world,  my  dear  brother-in-law.  Even  from 
you  I  could  not  accept  such  a  favour.  Pay  me  out?  Why, 
it  would  be  no  favour:  it  would  be  a  crime.  Do  you  know 
that  my  only  detaining  creditor  is  an  attorney?  Pay  an 
attorney?  Never.  Remember  Probus.  Surely  you  have 
had  enough  of  attorneys.' 

'  Indeed  I  am  not  likely  to  forget  Probus  as  long  as  I  live. 
But  then,  if  you  are  not  paid  out,  Tom,  how  will  you  get 
out?' 

'I  shall  walk  out,  Mr.  William  Halliday.  If  you  let  us 
go  out  with  you  I  shall  send  the  wife  on  board  with  Alice 
and  I  shall  then  walk  out  with  my  violin  in  one  hand  and 
a  bundle  of  music  in  the  other  on  the  evening  before  the 
ship  sails.  I  shall  go  on  board.  When  my  creditor  finds 
out  that  I  have  taken  my  departure,  which  may  take  weeks 
—  or  it  may  take  months  —  that  honest  attorney  will  be 
pained  no  doubt,  for  he  is  of  a  revengeful  spirit.  He  will 
then  do  exactly  what  he  pleases.  But  I  believe  he  will  not 
venture  out  to  Virginia.  If  he  should  dare  that  attempt  I 
will  give  him  to  friendly  Indians  in  order  to  be  —  carbon- 
adoed, as  I  believe  you  Americans  call  it.  That  attorney, 
Will,  shall  be  carbonadoed  over  a  slow  fire.' 

Tom,  then,  was  to  come  with  us.  So  with  Jenny,  her 
maid,  and  her  man:  Tom  Shirley  and  his  wife:  Alice,  the 


334  The  Orange  Girl 

boy  and  myself  we  should  make  up  as  pleasant  a  family  party 
as  ever  sailed  across  the  Atlantic. 

The  time  approached  when  we  were  to  go  on  board.  The 
ship  was  to  drop  down  with  the  ebb  on  Saturday  morning 
at  nine  with  the  turn  of  the  tide.  Everything  was  on  board ; 
on  the  forecastle  on  deck  my  live  stock  was  gathered :  sheep, 
pigs,  turkeys  (all  of  which  died  in  the  Channel)  geese  and 
poultry:  our  furniture,  books  and  music  were  stowed  away 
in  the  hold:  our  wine  and  liquors  were  laid  in  bunks  around 
the  cabin:  the  Captain  and  the  mate  were  to  take  meals 
with  us:  they  were  also  so  obliging  as  to  drink  up  our  rum 
and  our  wine.  We  had  no  leavetakings :  on  Friday  after- 
noon Alice  and  her  sister-in-law  went  on  board.  Tom 
joined  them  after  sundown.  At  eight  o'clock  or  thereabouts 
I  was  to  bring  Jenny  and  her  party  on  board.  Lord  Brock- 
enhurst  had  expressed  his  desire  to  say  farewell  to  her  on  the 
quarterdeck. 

A  little  after  seven  I  repaired  to  the  Gaol.  At  the  gates  I 
saw  waiting  three  large  waggons  which  the  people  were  fill- 
ing with  boxes  and  bundles  tied  up  in  sacking  and  canvas.  I 
thought  nothing  of  these  waggons  at  the  moment:  they  did 
not  concern  me,  and  I  entered  the  Lodge.  There  was  wait- 
ing for  me  Jenny  herself,  dressed  in  splendour  as  if  for  a 
wedding.  Surely  no  prisoner  sentenced  to  transportation 
ever  went  on  board  ship  in  such  a  guise.  She  was  taking 
an  affectionate  leave  of  the  Governor,  who  was  moved  almost 
to  tears  by  her  departure. 

'  Indeed,  Sir/  she  said,  '  I  am  grieved  to  have  put  you  to 
so  much  trouble/  So  she  shook  hands,  smiling  sweetly: 
then  she  turned  to  the  turnkeys.  '  I  am  also  very  much 
in  your  debt,  my  friends/  and  walked  along  the  whole  line 
distributing  guineas.  '  God  bless  your  Ladyship ! '  they 
uttered  fervently.  '  We  shall  never  see  the  likes  of  your 
Ladyship  here  again/ 

Indeed  I  am  sure  that  they  never  will. 

She  mounted  the  steps  of  the  coach  which  waited  out- 
side, she  was  followed  by  the  girl,  by  myself,  and  by  the 
lad  called  Jack. 

*  I  am  glad/  she  said,  '  that  this  child  goes  out  with  me 
to  Virginia/  The  child  —  she  looked  little  more  —  took 
Jenny's  hand  and  kissed  it.  'She  is  an  affectionate  little 
fool/  said  Jenny,  *  and  loves  me  much.  And  to  think  what 


Out  of  the  Frying  Pan  Into  the  Fire    335 

they  were  going  to  do  with  her!     Oh!  Fools!  Fools!'  she 
cried.    '  Oh !  monstrous  Fools ! ' 

We  were  now  rolling  slowly  along  Ludgate  Hill.  There 
was  a  rumbling  after  us  which  continued.  I  looked  out. 
They  were  the  three  waggons  I  had  observed  at  the 
Gate. 

'What  are  those  waggons ?'  I  asked. 

'  They  contain  my  baggage.  Did  you  think  I  was  going 
abroad  with  nothing?7 

1  But  in  those  waggons  you  must  have  the  whole  ward- 
robe of  Drury  Lane/ 

She  laughed.     'Will,  you   understand   nothing.     Did   I 
not  tell  you  that  I  would  have  all  those  turnkeys  at  my  feet 
in  a  day  or  two?    Well,  I  succeeded/ 
I     'But  what  has  that  got  to  do  with  your  baggage? ' 

'  WThy,  you  see,  the  officers  that  went  to  search  my  house 
for  stolen  property  began  with  the  garrets.  And  there  they 
stopped.  Now  when  my  mother  agreed  to  give  evidence 
it  was  on  conditions  as  I  told  you.  I  gave  her  money  for 
compensation  and  I  bought  the  whole  of  her  stock  of  stolen 
property.  It  had  been  stored  in  the  stone  vaults  under  the 
Black  Jack.  They  carried  it  over  to  the  cellars  of  my  house, 
and  when  there  was  no  room  left  there,  they  used  the 
garrets/ 

4  Oh !    They  took  the  garrets  first/ 

'Where  there  was  very  little  to  see.  Now  you  under- 
stand why  there  was  such  a  paltry  show.  Could  a  woman 
in  my  position  brave  such  a  fate  for  things  so  miserable?' 

'Jenny!  Jenny!     You  are  wonderful/ 

'  No,  Will,  only  I  have  my  wits  about  me/ 

'  You  have  actually  converted  Newgate  —  Newgate  Prison 
—  into  a  Receiving  House  for  stolen  property/ 

'  Five  guineas  apiece  for  the  turnkeys  was  what  it  cost. 
I  thought  it  the  safest  and  the  simplest  plan,  Will/ 

'  Safest  and  simplest ! ' 

Before  I  recovered  the  surprise  of  this  information  we 
reached  the  stairs.  On  the  Quarter  deck  was  Alice  with  the 
boy. 

'  You  dear  good  woman/  Jenny  cried.  '  You  are  come 
to  see  the  last  of  the  transported  convict:  the  end  of  the 
Orange  Girl ! ' 

Yet  beside  my  wife  in  her  homely  dress,  Jenny  looked  like 
a  Countess.  Alice  kissed  her.  '  We  are  not  going  to 


336  The  Orange  Girl 

you,  Jenny.    We  are  going  with  you,  your  servants  as  long 
as  we  live/ 


CHAPTER  XXVI 

THE   LAST   TEMPTATION 

'  WE  are  waiting/  said  the  Captain,  *  for  our  passengers.' 

While  he  spoke  there  came  alongside  the  ship  a  dozen 
boats  or  more  laden  with  the  passengers  for  whose  sake 
the  good  ship  was  about  to  cross  the  Atlantic.  There  were, 
I  remember  —  it  is  not  possible  for  me  to  forget  anything 
that  happened  on  this  voyage  —  one  hundred  and  eight  of 
them  who  came  on  board,  men  and  women.  They  were 
brought  down  from  Blackfriars  Stairs  in  a  closed  lighter. 

'Jenny/  I  said,  'go  into  the  cabin.  Do  not  look  at 
them/ 

'  Why,  Will,  I  ought  to  be  among  them.  I  am  one  of 
them.  Suffer  me  to  look  at  my  brothers  and  sisters  in 
misfortune/ 

Of  these  poor  wretches  we  had  seen  the  greater  part 
already  in  Newgate.  Within  those  walls:  in  the  bad  air; 
among  those  companions;  where  everything  was  sordid  and 
wretched;  they  did  not  present  an  appearance  so  horrible  as 
they  did  in  the  open  air;  on  the  bright  river;  in  the  sunshine; 
under  the  flying  clouds;  among  the  sailors;  where  everything 
spoke  of  freedom.  The  pallor  of  their  faces;  their  wretched 
rags  blowing  about  in  the  breeze;  their  pinched  faces;  the 
unnatural  brightness  of  their  eyes;  their  tottering  limbs; 
their  meek  submissiveness  to  order;  proclaimed  their  long 
detention  in  prison  while  they  were  waiting  for  the  ship.  As 
they  climbed  up  the  companion  painfully;  as  they  stepped 
down  upon  the  deck;  as  they  stood  huddled  together  like 
sheep,  my  heart  sank  within  me  for  thinking  that  Jenny,  too, 
was  reckoned  as  one  of  these.  I  glanced  at  her;  she  was 
thinking  the  same  thing;  her  cheek  was  aflame;  her  eyes 
glowed ;  her  lips  trembled. 

'Will/  said  she;  'we  are  a  proper  company.  Virginia 
will  welcome  us/ 

They  brought  with  them  —  faugh!  the  prison  reek  and 
stench.  But  we  saw  them  for  a  few  moments  only.  Then 


Out  of  the  Frying  Pan  Into  the  Fire    337 

they  were  bundled  down  below  to  their  own  quarters  and 
we  saw  the  poor  creatures  no  more. 

It  has  been  said  that  these  poor  convicts  are  cruelly  ill-used 
on  board  the  transport  ships.  I  can  speak  only  of  what  I 
saw;  I  know  that  our  Captain  was  a  humane  man.  I  can 
testify  to  the  fact  that  there  were  seldom  more  than  two  or 
three  floggings  a  day,  and  of  the  women  not  so  many;  I 
know  that  our  convicts  were  a  gang  of  hardened  wretches 
whom  nothing  but  the  fear  of  the  lash  kept  in  order;  I  know 
that  when  they  came  on  board  they  were  for  the  most  part 
in  a  wretched  condition;  of  low  habits  from  long  confine- 
ment, poor  food,  and  bad  drink;  that  many  of  them  lay 
down  directly  the  ship  got  into  open  water  and,  what  with 
sea-sickness,  fever,  and  weakness,  never  got  up  again.  The 
truth  is  that  the  contractors,  who  receive  £5  a  head  for  a 
voyage  which  takes  about  two  months,  do  honestly  provide 
the  convicts  the  rations  prescribed  by  the  Government. 
iThese  rations  are  sufficient  but  not  luxurious;  they  consist 
of  beef,  pork,  biscuits  and  cheese  once  a  week;  to  keep  up 
their  spirits  they  are  served  a  ration  of  gin.  The  beef  may 
have  been  tough  and  the  pork  rusty,  but  such  as  it  was  the 
Captain  served  it  out  among  them.  Yet,  on  the  voyage 
of  seven  weeks  we  buried  forty-seven,  or  nearly  one  every 
day.  It  seems  a  large  number;  those  who  died  were  nearly 
all  men;  very  few  of  them  were  women.  They  were  unfit 
to  face  the  fatigues  of  the  voyage  and  the  rolling  of  the 
ship;  some  of  them  were  even  consumptive;  some  were 
asthmatic;  some  were  in  fevers;  some  had  other  diseases; 
they  died;  perhaps  they  would  have  died  at  home  in  prison. 
At  Newgate  scarce  a  day  passes  that  some  poor  wretch  does 
not  succumb  to  privation  and  bad  air.  If  so  many  of  them 
died  on  board  the  ship  that  is  no  proof  of  inhumanity. 

Let  us  forget  these  poor  sinners.  It  is  easy  to  say  that 
they  deserved  all  they  got.  No  doubt  they  did.  And  what 
do  we  deserve?  And  when  a  man  like  myself  has  gone 
through  that  gate  and  mouth  of  Hell  called  Newgate,  he 
looks  on  the  poor  creatures  who  go  there  to  be  flogged  and 
branded  and  pilloried  and  hanged  and  transported  with 
some  compassion  because  he  knows  that  such  as  they  are, 
such  they  have  been  made.  Mr.  Merridew  is  always  with 
them:  the  landlady  of  the  Black  Jack  is  always  ready  to  buy 
what  they  offer  her  for  sale:  no  respectable  person  will 
employ  them;  they  have  never  been  taught  anything.  The 


338  The  Orange  Girl 

Divine  and  the  schoolmaster  dare  not  venture  within  their 
streets,  which  are  the  very  Sanctuary  of  Wickedness;  our 
charities  are  all  for  the  deserving;  we  have  no  bowels,  no 
compassion,  for  those  we  call  the  undeserving.  Let  us  for- 
get them.  Better  to  lie  at  the  bottom  of  the  ocean,  where 
at  least  it  is  peaceful,  than  to  face  the  cruel  whip  of  the 
overseer,  and  the  burning  fields  of  the  American  Plantations. 

Our  voyage  lasted,  I  say,  little  more  than  seven  weeks; 
we  were  wafted  across  a  smooth  sea  by  favouring  breezes. 
After  leaving  the  Channel  we  got  into  a  warmer  air;  we 
began  to  sit  on  the  quarterdeck.  Tom  and  I  got  out  our 
violins  and  played.  We  played  for  our  party;  we  played 
for  the  sailors;  we  sang  those  part-songs  which  he  made  so 
well.  Jenny,  for  her  part,  was  silent.  Now  and  then  she 
spoke  to  me  about  herself. 

'  Will/  she  said,  '  if  I  receive  that  permission  to  return 
which  my  Lord  promises,  what  will  you  do?  Will  you 
come  home  with  me?7 

'  I  do  not  know/  I  told  her.  '  If  the  place  pleases  us, 
why  should  we  go  home  again?  My  memories  of  home 
will  be  full  of  wrongs  for  many  a  year  to  come.  I  can  never 
get  back  to  my  old  friends  in  the  City.  Although,  thanks 
to  you,  I  was  fully  acquitted,  I  am  a  Newgate  bird  and  a 
bird  of  the  King's  Bench.  People  look  askance  upon  such 
a  man.  I  must  think  of  Alice,  too,  and  of  the  boy.  We 
must  not  let  these  memories  haunt  the  mother  and  make  the 
boy  ashamed/ 

'  To  go  back/  she  answered  without  heeding  me, '  to  stand 
on  the  stage  at  Drury  Lane  once  more.  Have  they  for- 
gotten me  already,  do  you  think?  The  Orange  Girls  will 
remember,  I  am  sure,  and  the  natives  of  St.  Giles/  she 
laughed,  '  I  don't  think  they  will  bear  malice.' 

'You  must  not  go  back  to  Drury  Lane,  Jenny.' 

'  I  can  do  better  than  Drury  Lane,  Will/  she  said.  '  I 
have  but  to  consent  and  I  shall  be  —  a  Countess.  And  oh ! 
how  proud  will  my  children  be  of  their  mother,  proud  indeed 
of  their  mother.  Oh!  Will,  to  think  how  one's  birth  clings 
round  and  hampers  us  all  our  lives.  I  might  be  happy;  I 
might  make  a  good  and  faithful  man  happy;  but  the  time 
would  come  when  the  children  would  grow  up  and  would 
ask  who  and  what  was  their  mother  and  where  she  was 
born.  Could  I  take  them  to  the  ruins  of  the  Black  Jack? 
Could  I  take  them  to  the  Tyburn  Tree  of  Glory  and  tell 


Out  of  the  Frying  Pan  Into  the  Fire    339 

them  how  how  their  grandfather  died?'  Then  she  relapsed 
into  silence  and  so  remained  for  awhile. 

She  had  none  of  the  common  accomplishments  of  women ; 
she  could  not  sew  or  embroider  or  make  things  as  women 
used.  She  could  do  nothing;  she  could  not  cook  or  make 
cordials;  she  understood  no  household  work  of  any  kind: 
she  could  read,  but  she  had  read  nothing  beyond  the  plays 
in  which  she  had  acted;  she  knew  no  history  or  geography 
or  politics;  she  knew  nothing  but  what  she  had  learned  for 
her  own  purposes;  the  scaffolding,  so  to  speak,  on  which 
the  actor  builds  his  playing;  the  art  of  fine  dress;  and  how 
to  wear  it;  the  art  of  dancing  with  an  admirable  grace  of 
manner  and  of  carriage;  the  art  of  courtesy  and  graciousness, 
in  which  she  was  a  Princess;  the  art  of  making  herself  even 
more  beautiful  than  Nature  intended;  and  the  art  of  bring- 
ing all  men  to  her  feet.  Before  we  had  been  a  day  at  sea, 
the  Captain  was  her  servant  to  command ;  by  the  second  day, 
the  mate  was  her  slave;  by  the  third  day  the  sailors  wor- 
shipped her.  She  brought  good  luck  to  the  ship;  every 
sailor  will  tell  you  that  passengers  may,  and  often  do,  resem- 
ble Jonah,  who  was  pursued  by  a  tempest;  Jenny  brought 
fair  weather  and  a  balmy  breeze  always  from  the  right 
quarter. 

She  did  not  forget  our  fellow-passengers.  When  she 
heard  that  they  were  dying  fast  she  would  have  gone  below 
to  visit  them  but  the  Captain  refused  his  leave;  the  noisome 
quarters  where  they  herded  together,  day  and  night,  was 
not  a  proper  place  for  any  decent  woman  to  visit.  Let  her 
send  down  what  she  pleased,  and  they  should  have  it.  She 
sent  down  from  our  stores  daily  drams  of  cordial  and  of  rum ; 
if  she  did  not  save  many  lives  she  made  death  less  terrible. 

The  voyage  came  to  an  end  all  too  quickly.  On  a  certain 
day  at  the  beginning  of  April  we  put  into  port  and  presently 
landed  on  the  shores  of  the  New  World.  There  are  certain 
forms.  The  bodies  of  Jenny  Halliday  and  Pamela  St.  Giles 
—  I  called  the  girl  Pamela  for  obvious  reasons  —  were  duly 
delivered  to  the  officer  representing  the  Governor  and  as 
duly  handed  over  to  me  as  their  master  for  five  years.  This 
proceeding  was  performed  without  Jenny's  presence  or 
knowledge.  I  then  found  a  lodging  not  far  from  the  Port 
and  sought  the  merchants  to  whom  I  had  letters  of  intro- 
duction and  credit. 

My  tale  draws  to  an  end.    Let  it  not  grow  tedious  in  its 


340  The  Orange  Girl 

last  pages.  In  one  word,  in  a  week  or  so  after  our  landing 
we  started  on  a  short  journey  of  thirty  miles  or  so  over  a 
somewhat  rough  road.  Our  journey  took  us  five  hours.  It 
was  about  three  o'clock  in  the  afternoon  when  we  arrived. 
First  there  was  a  large  wooden  house  of  two  storeys  painted 
white;  in  the  front  a  long  and  deep  veranda  —  meaning  a 
place  covered  over  and  protected  from  the  sun  by  the  roof 
and  hangings  at  the  side  and  in  the  front.  Before  the  house 
was  a  flower-garden ;  at  the  back  was  a  kitchen  garden  and 
orchard ;  the  house  was  well  and  solidly  furnished ;  all  round 
the  house  lay  fields  of  tobacco  on  which  black  people  were 
working;  on  the  steps  of  the  veranda;  in  the  garden;  under 
the  trees  played  in  the  warm  sun  the  little  naked  negro 
children. 

'Where  are  we?'  asked  Jenny,  looking  round  her. 

I  assisted  her  to  get  out  of  the  waggon  —  it  was  little  bet- 
ter—  in  which  we  had  made  our  journey. 

I  led  her  into  the  house.  In  the  principal  room  there  was 
a  long  table  laid  as  if  for  dinner.  At  the  head  was  an  arm- 
chair carved,  I  should  think,  in  the  sixteenth  century,  or 
earlier;  it  was  a  kind  of  throne  with  a  coat  of  arms  carved, 
gilded,  and  coloured  upon  it;  the  shield  of  the  late  occupant 
of  the  estate,  recently  dead. 

I  led  Jenny  to  the  head  of  the  table.  I  placed  her  in  the 
throne. 

'Madame/  I  said,  'this  house  is  yours;  these  gardens  are 
yours;  this  estate  is  yours;  and  we,  if  you  please,  are  your 
most  humble  servants  to  command.'  So  I  bent  one  knee 
and  kissed  her  hand. 

'Your  most  humble,  obedient  and  grateful  servants,'  said 
Alice,  following  my  example. 

So  we  all  did  homage,  but  our  Queen  and  mistress  hid 
her  face  in  her  handkerchief  and  for  a  while  she  could  not 
speak. 

Thus  began  our  new  life,  in  which  we  all  vied  with  each 
other  in  making  Jenny  feel  that  she  was  our  mistress.  We 
called  her  Madame;  we  made  way  for  her;  we  flew  to  obey 
her;  the  overseers  were  instructed  to  report  to  her,  person- 
ally, as  to  the  condition  of  the  field  and  the  conduct  of  the 
slaves  —  there  were  no  white  servants  on  the  estate;  the 
slaves  themselves  looked  to  Madame  as  their  owner,  their 
mistress,  and  their  friend. 

For  a  time  Jenny's  mind  remained  still  with  the  events  of 


Out  of  the  Frying  Pan  Into  the  Fire    34! 

the  past:  the  thought  of  Lord  Brockenhurst;  of  the  danger 
and  the  horrors  which  she  had  escaped;  indeed  she  could 
never  forget  these  things.  Little  by  little,  as  I  hoped,  the 
sense  of  power  and  authority  returned.  She  never  asked 
how  this  lovely  property  came  to  her,  or  if  it  truly  belonged 
to  her;  she  began  quietly,  as  she  had  done  in  the  Assembly 
Rooms  at  Soho  Square,  to  direct,  administrate,  and  improve. 
She  mitigated  the  floggings ;  she  improved  the  slaves'  rations ; 
she  gave  them  days  of  rejoicing;  she  made  the  poor  ignorant 
blacks  who  for  the  most  part  understand  little  but  the  whip 
and  the  stick  and  the  cuff,  feel  that  they  were  in  kindly 
hands;  their  children  rolled  about  at  her  feet  taking  their 
childish  liberties;  she  learned  the  business  of  tobacco-grow- 
ing in  all  the  stages;  she  walked  about  the  fields  in  the  morn- 
ing before  the  sun  was  high,  and  noted  how  the  plants  were 
looking  and  whether  the  weeds  were  kept  down. 

Our  neighbours  —  we  had  neighbours  in  all  directions  at 
two  or  three  miles'  distance  —  for  some  time  hesitated  to  call. 
Things  were  variously  reported;  that  Madame  had  come 
out  for  the  help  of  her  cousin,  a  convict;  that  Madame  had 
brought  out  a  large  fortune;  that  the  cousin  had  certainly 
letters  of  credit  for  a  very  large  amount;  that  Madame  was 
herself  a  convict;  that  we  were  all  convicts  —  political  pris- 
oners—  sent  out  for  some  kind  of  treason  —  Jacobite  con- 
spirators; friends  of  the  Young  Pretender;  there  was  no 
end  to  the  rumours  and  reports  which  were  spread  abroad 
concerning  us.  Nor  was  it  until  Lord  Brockenhurst  him- 
self came  all  the  way  from  England  to  visit  us  and  stay  with 
us,  as  you  shall  hear,  that  the  neighbours  made  up  their 
minds  that  we  could  be  visited.  I  believe  people  think  that 
Colonial  society  is  open  to  all  comers  without  question  — 
perhaps  they  think  it  is  composed  of  convicts.  On  the  other 
hand  the  Colonials  are  more  careful  than  the  English  at 
home  whom  they  admit  into  their  houses  on  friendly  or 
intimate  terms. 

Our  method  of  life  was  simple  and  uniform.  We  assem- 
bled on  the  veranda  at  seven,  when  I  read  prayers  and  a 
chapter.  This  done  we  took  breakfast,  not  the  petty  meal 
of  thin  bread  and  butter  and  tea  which  satisfies  the  man 
about  town,  but  a  plentiful  repast  with  many  dishes  contain- 
ing vegetables  and  fruits  unknown  in  London.  After  break- 
fast came  the  duties  of  the  day.  My  own  part  was  the 
keeping  of  the  accounts.  I  called  myself  the  steward.  Alice 


342  The  Orange  Girl 

directed  the  household;  Jack  was  butler  in  command  over 
the  negroes  of  the  house ;  and  Pamela  St.  Giles  was  in  charge 
of  the  stillroom.  Outside,  the  blacks  were  busy  in  the  fields. 
At  twelve  a  bell  rang  which  brought  them  all  back  to  camp 
where  they  took  their  dinner.  At  half  past  twelve  we  dined. 
For  our  eating  I  declare  that  we  had  the  choicest  birds ;  the 
finest  mutton;  the  best  beef;  the  most  excellent  fish  that  you 
can  imagine;  all  things  cheap;  all  plentiful;  and  for  drink 
our  cellars  were  full  of  such  Canary,  Madeira  and  Port  as 
few  gentlemen  could  show  at  home.  In  the  evening  we  had 
supper  at  six ;  after  supper  I  read  prayers  and  another  chap- 
ter. Then  we  played  cards;  or  we  had  in  the  violins;  or 
Tom  played  on  the  harpischord ;  or  we  sang  glees  and  Mad- 
rigals. And  every  night  all  to  bed  by  nine. 

On  Sundays  we  had  morning  service,  which  I  read.  The 
overseers  were  present  and  after  the  blacks  grew  to  like 
the  music  they  sat  about  the  door  while  we  chanted  the 
Psalms  and  sang  our  Hymns.  In  the  evening  I  read  a  ser- 
mon or  a  discourse  on  some  godly  subject. 

At  these  religious  exercises  Madame  would  always  be 
present;  sitting  in  her  carved  armchair,  her  head  resting  on 
her  hand,  expressing  in  her  face  neither  interest  nor  weari- 
ness. Remember  that  never  had  anyone  taught  her  a  word 
of  religion.  She  looked  on  and  listened;  sometimes  she  did 
not  listen;  her  eyes  were  fixed  and  far  away;  she  was  back 
on  the  stage  of  Drury  Lane. 

Who  can  tell  how  they  all  loved  and  worshipped  her? 
Even  the  overseers,  commonly  the  most  brutal  of  men,  some 
of  whom  pride  themselves  at  being  able  to  cut  a  lump  of 
flesh  from  a  negro's  leg  at  a  distance  of  ten  feet  and  more, 
were  softened  by  the  gracious  presence.  The  worst  cruelties 
were  abandoned  on  our  estate;  as  for  floggings;  of  course 
there  must  be  flogging  so  long  as  there  are  slaves;  and  of 
course  there  must  be  slaves  so  long  as  there  are  negroes. 
The  clergy  of  Virginia  are  united  in  this  opinion;  I  wish 
they  were  also  united  in  the  opinion  that  even  a  slave  should 
be  protected  by  the  law  from  inhuman  treatment. 

This  our  quiet  mode  of  life  was  broken  into  one  day  when 
there  appeared  unexpectedly  Lord  Brockenhurst  himself.  It 
was  about  six  months  after  our  arrival.  He  dismounted ;  he 
threw  his  reins  to  his  servant  and  mounted  the  steps  of  the 
veranda. 

It  was  late  in  the  afternoon  —  about  six;  the  autumn  sun 


Out  of  the  Frying  Pan  Into  the  Fire    343 

was  getting  low;  Jenny  was  sitting  with  Alice  and  Tom's 
wife  talking  of  household  affairs.  She  rose  quietly  with  a 
pretty  blush  and  stepped  forward. 

'Good  Heavens,  jenny!'  his  Lordship  cried,  'you  are 
more  beautiful  than  ever,  I  swear.' 

'  Welcome,  my  Lord,  to  Virginia.  You  are  come,  I  trust, 
to  accept  the  hospitality  of  this  poor  house?' 

'  Madame,  you  honour  me.  It  is  a  lovely  house  with  a 
view  the  most  charming  in  the  world.  I  knew  not  that  Vir- 
ginia was  half  so  fine  a  country.' 

'  Indeed,  if  English  people  did  know  —  they  would  all 
come  over.  I  pray  your  Lordship  not  to  speak  too  well  of 
us.  There  are  some  people  in  the  old  country  that  we  would 
not  willingly  welcome  in  the  New.' 

So  she  led  him  into  the  inner  room  and  sent  for  Madeira 
to  refresh  him. 

'  Your  Lordship  has  something  to  tell  me/  she  said, 
beginning  to  shiver  and  shake.  'You  did  not  come  all 
the  way  from  England  only  to  wish  me  Good-morning.' 

'  I  bring  you,  Jenny,  what  I  promised,  your  full  pardon 
and  release.  It  is  in  the  hands  of  the  Governor.  You  can 
return,  now,  whenever  you  please.' 

'  I  was  beginning  to  forget,  my  Lord,  that  I  am  but  a 
prisoner  still  and  a  convict.  These  people  with  whom  I 
live,  the  best  people,  I  very  believe,  in  the  whole  world, 
have  almost  made  me  forget  that  fact.  But  I  thank  your 
Lordship  all  the  same.  I  thank  you  most  humbly  and  most 
gratefully.  Except  my  Cousin  Will  —  my  husband's 
cousin  —  there  is  no  more  loyal  and  faithful  gentleman  than 
my  Lord  Brockenhurst.' 

'  I  have  done  what  I  can.     I  could  do  no  more.' 

'My  lord,  you  have  ridden  thirty  miles.  You  are  tired? 
No?  Then  —  let  me  ask  you  one  more  favour.  Tell  me 
about  this  matter  to-morrow.  Sleep  first  upon  it,'  for  she 
saw  his  purpose  in  his  eyes.  '  Think,  I  pray  you,  partly 
of  what  I  am  and  of  what  you  are;  partly  of  your  own  dig- 
nity ;  partly  of  how  one  such  as  I  am  should  behave  towards 
one  such  as  you/ 

She  rose. 

'  I  will  now/  she  said, '  if  you  are  not  tired,  show  you  our 
gardens  and  our  tobacco-fields/ 

His  Lordship  took  supper  with  us.  I  saw  that  he  was 
pleased  at  the  little  state  and  ceremony  with  which  we 


344  The  Orange  Girl 

surrounded  Jenny.     I  saw,  as  well,  the  love  in  his  eyes, 
which  he  could  not  tear  away  from  her  face. 

After  supper,  we  had  a  little  concert.  Tom  took  the 
harpsichord,  and  I  took  the  violin.  First  we  played  a 
piece,  as  a  duet;  then  Tom  played  while  Alice  sang;  then 
we  all,  with  Jack  our  Butler,  who  had  an  excellent  bass, 
while  Tom  sang  alto  and  I  the  tenor,  sang  four-part  songs, 
and  I  saw  how  his  Lordship  watched  the  negroes  sitting 
about  outside  and  crowding  up  the  doorway.  I  am  sure 
he  took  home  the  belief  that  we  were  a  happy  household, 
blacks  and  all;  and  that  Jenny  was  the  mistress  over  all. 

After  breakfast  in  the  morning  Jenny  bade  Alice  and 
me  come  with  her  while  she  received  his  Lordship. 

She  took  her  place  at  the  window,  sitting  in  her  high 
chair.  Lord  Brockenhurst  entered,  bearing  certain  papers 
in  his  hand. 

'  My  lord/  she  said,  '  you  can  speak  with  perfect  freedom. 
I  entreat  you  to  use  perfect  freedom  before  my  cousins.  I 
have  no  secrets  from  them;  they  can  tell  you  perhaps  more 
about  myself  than  I  ever  will  speak  —  for  myself.' 

Lord  Brockenhurst  coloured  and  was  confused,  but  only 
for  a  little.  '  Dear  Madame/  he  said,  '  since  you  will  not 
give  an  interview  alone  I  must  make  the  best  of  the  presence 
of  others/ 

'  They  know  everything/  said  Madame. 

He  bowed.  '  I  have  told  you/  he  said,  '  that  I  have 
brought  out  and  delivered  over  to  the  Governor  your  full 
pardon  and  release.  These  papers  are  a  Copy/ 

Jenny  pushed  them  aside.  'I  do  not  want  "to  see  them/ 
she  said,  '  let  me  never  be  reminded  of  their  existence. 
Take  them,  Will,  and  lock  them  up/ 

I  received  them  and  placed  them  in  my  pocket. 

'  That  done,  Madame/  he  went  on,  '  I  have  only  to  invite 
your  remembrance  of  a  certain  proposal  that  —  I  believe 
you  have  not  forgotten  it.  Since  your  worthy  cousins 
know  what  that  proposal  was  I  have  only  to  say  that  once 
more,  most  divine  woman,  I  offer  myself  —  my  name  and 
rank  —  my  fortune  and  possessions  —  at  your  feet/  He 
fell  on  his  knees  and  took  her  hand. 

Jenny  turned  away  her  face.  'Answer  him,  Alice  —  tell 
him  what  I  have  so  often  told  you.  Rise,  my  Lord.  Dot 
not  pain  me  by  kneeling  at  my  unworthy  feet/  t 

1  My  Lord/  said  Alice  solemnly,  '  there  is  no  one  in  the! 


Out  of  the  Frying  Pan  Into  the  Fire    345 

world  —  believe  me  —  whom  Jenny  regards  with  greater 
respect  and  gratitude  than  yourself.' 

'  Respect  and  gratitude  are  but  cold  words/  he  said. 

'Let  me  add  with  greater  love.  Your  Lordship  is  the 
only  man  in  the  world  whom  she  has  ever  loved  or  could 
love.  That  also,  believe  me,  is  most  true/ 

'Why,  then '     He  held  out  his  hand. 

'Nay,  my  Lord.  Jenny  loves  you  so  well  that  nothing 
would  induce  her  to  accept  the  honour  of  your  proposal/ 

'How?    Loves  me  so  well?' 

'  Jenny  bids  me  tell  you  that  the  time  would  come  when 
your  children  would  ask  who  was  their  mother,  and  who 
were  her  mother's  friends.  They  would  learn  her  history, 
I  need  not  remind  you  of  her  history.  You  know  it  all. 
Jenny  loves  you  too  well  to  bring  shame  and  discredit  on 
a  noble  House.  Your  children,  she  says,  must  have  a 
mother  worthy  of  yourself/ 

'  There  is  no  more  worthy  woman  in  the  world  than 
Jenny ! ' 

'Their  mother  must  have  an  unblemished  name,  my 
Lord,  worthy  of  your  own.  She  knows  you  to  be  so  good 
and  loyal  that  you  could  never  reproach  her  with  the  past. 
But  it  belongs  to  her.  And,  my  Lord,  it  must  not  belong 
to  you/ 

'It  must  not;  it  shall  not,'  Jenny  repeated  through  her 
tears. 

'Is  this  your  answer,  Jenny?  Oh!  Jenny,  will  you  cast 
me  off  for  such  a  scruple? ' 

'  I  must  — 'I  must.  Go,  my  Lord.  Think  of  me  no 
more.  Why ' —  she  sprang  to  her  feet  — '  what  could  I 
expect?  I  —  the  Orange  Girl  —  the  daughter  of  the  Black 
Jack  —  the  friend  of  thieves;  the  Newgate  Prisoner;  the 
transported  convict?  A  coronet?  For  me?  the  hand  of  a 
noble  gentleman?  the  name  of  a  noble  house?  Forme?  Fie 
upon  you,  my  Lord,  for  thinking  of  such  a  thing!  Remem- 
ber what  is  due  to  a  gentleman.  And  I  thank  you  —  oh !  I 
thank  you  —  you  can  never  know  how  much  —  for  thinking 
—  you  the  only  one  —  of  nothing  less  or  lower.  Go,  my 
Lord.  Tempt  me  no  more.  I  know  what  I  must  do. 
Farewell/ 

He  seized  her  in  his  arms ;  he  kissed  her  —  forehead  and 
cheek  and  lips  and  hands.  He  ceased  to  urge  his  suit.  He 
saw  that  she  was  fixed,  and  in  his  heart  he  knew  that  she 


346  The  Orange  Girl 

was  right.     '  I  obey/  he  said.     '  Oh !  noblest  of  women,  I 
obey.' 

So  he  rushed  away,  and  Jenny  fell  into  Alice's  arms. 

I  sit  on  my  own  estate  in  the  pleasant  land  of  Virginia; 
outside  the  veranda  the  hot  sun  ripens  the  corn  and  fruit: 
I  did  my  duty  in  the  great  and  glorious  war  which  set  our 
country  free:  my  sons  will  do  theirs  if  the  occasion  should 
again  arise:  we  have  taught  our  cousins  across  the  seas  that 
we  can  fight  for  freedom :  but  there  will  be  no  more  fighting 
for  that.  It  is  won,  once  for  all  —  I  am  now  old,  but  as  I  sit 
alone,  my  eyes  resting  on  as  fair  a  landscape  of  river  and 
forest  and  orchard  and  garden  as  the  world  can  show,  I 
suddenly  wander  away  and  gaze  beyond  the  ocean,  beyond 
the  years,  upon  that  abode  of  despair  and  wretchedness, 
where  Jenny  sits  like  a  flower  in  a  pig-sty,  talking  of  what 
she  should  do  when  she  came  out  of  prison,  but  unable  to 
read  in  the  future  any  return  to  the  world  at  all.  As  for  fear 
or  doubt,  or  any  anxiety  about  the  future,  the  poor  soul  had 
none.  She  was  going  to  continue  for  ever  beautiful,  to  win 
that  worship  of  men  which  she  loved  so  much.  I  have  now 
lost  all  the  friends  of  my  youth:  they  pass  before  me  some- 
times in  a  long  procession.  It  is  the  consolation  of  age  to 
live  in  the  past:  but  in  all  the  array  of  ghosts  there  is  none 
that  brings  tears  except  the  figure  of  Jenny  in  her  wondrous 
beauty  and  her  soft  and  lovely  eyes. 

She  lived  with  us  for  more  than  thirty  years.  She  grew 
gray  —  but  she  was  as  lovely  in  her  age  as  in  her  youth. 
She  was  mistress  unquestioned  to  the  end  and  never  more 
than  in  her  old  age.  But  always  with  the  same  kindness: 
the  same  grace:  the  same  sweetness  of  look,  and  the  same 
softness  of  eye. 

She  died  at  last  of  some  fever  caught  of  a  young  negress 
whom  she  visited  in  the  infirmary.  She  was  ill  for  three  days 
only,  and  she  died  lying  in  the  veranda,  looking  out  upon 
the  woods  and  mountains  on  the  golden  sunshine  that  she 
loved. 

*  Alice,  dear/  she  said,  '  you  have  told  me,  often,  that  we 
are  led,  we  know  not  how,  to  things  that  are  best  for  us, 
though  by  ways  that  we  would  not  choose.  I  have  not  for- 
gotten what  you  said.  I  never  forget,  my  dear,  what  you 
say/ 

Alice  kissed  her  fingers. 


Out  of  the  Frying  Pan  Into  the  Fire    347 

'I  understand  now  what  you  mean.     I  have  been  led.    I 

have  been  led My  dear,  I  am  going  to  die.     Bury 

me  as  one  of  yourselves  —  not  in  a  ditch  like  my  own  people 

—  who,  perhaps,  are  not  led.    Bury  me  in  the  burial-ground 
where  your  baby  lies.     Put  no  stone  upon  my  grave,  but 
plant  white  flowers  over  it.     Let  my  abode,  at  least,  look 
lovely  after  death.    I  have  been  led,  Alice  —  I  have  been  led 

—  I  understand  it  now.' 

After  a  little.  '  Alice,  I  have  been  proud  of  what  men 
called  my  loveliness.  It  makes  every  woman  happy  when 
men  call  her  lovely.  My  Lord  called  me  lovely.  Send  him,' 
Alice,  a  lock  of  my  hair.  Tell  him  that  I  have  never  loved 
any  other  man.' 

She  died.  We  buried  her  in  the  little  burial-ground  where 
lay  the  child  we  lost.  We  put  up  no  headstone,  but  we 
planted  the  grave  with  white  flowers. 

There  is  now  another  grave  beside  hers  with  more  white 
flowers.  It  bears  the  name  of  Alice. 

To  me  it  has  been  given  to  love  two  women  at  the  same 
time,  and  that  with  equal  love  and  equal  respect  and  with- 
out blame  or  sin. 


THE  END. 


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